


Reaching for the Sun

by Darksidekelz



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Canon Adjacent AU, Drug Use, M/M, Origin Story, Prostitution, dub con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 128,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksidekelz/pseuds/Darksidekelz
Summary: Onslaught dreams of rising above his station, of leaving his mark on a planet that has done all in its power to ostracize mechs like him.  But, with his wit, his obstinacy, and a few well-placed connections, he just might have what it takes to make these dreams into a reality.





	1. Red Tape

**Author's Note:**

> Because I hate myself, here is yet another multi-chapter fic. Hopefully it will not explode like the last origin story I attempted.

“It’s not enough.”

With tense shoulders and narrowed optics, Onslaught sifted through the mass of information that Blast Off had handed him, divided between five different data pads, all confirming his every fear.  Sales figures didn’t lie, nor did overhead costs, tax projections, or even the dense pit of dread that had planted itself at the base of his tanks.  And every line of data came together to support Blast Off’s morbid observation – his upstart business wasn’t going to last the year.

He’d known it was a risky venture.  War frames, like himself, didn’t exactly have a reputation for leading successful, well-adjusted lives off the battlefield.  It didn’t matter that he’d been a decorated officer, a lauded strategist, a political powerhouse with the respect of his mechs, his superiors, even his enemies.  There was only so high a mech like him could reach, and it seemed that he’d found that ceiling.  What had he been thinking?

As a rule, war frames not serving active duty inhabited Cybertron’s lower levels.  There were no laws deeming it must be so, save for the unwritten demands of society.  Onslaught had sought to change this.  He was respectable.  And he had connections.  Blast Off, his friend, an Alpha Caste space shuttle, whom he had met in the Quintesson wars, had agreed to join on as his business partner and primary investor.  Together, they were going to pave a path for war builds to make their way out of the slums and up to the surface.

Using Onslaught’s knack for strategy and Blast Off’s knowledge of wealth management, the pair had opened shop as financial advisors to the slew of incoming lower caste mechs looking to use their accrued war earnings to start a better life.  And much to Onslaught’s delight, not only was business booming amongst their intended audience, but a surprising number of surface dwellers had apparently decided that a decorated military veteran was more trustworthy than the average high-class merchant, and had come to him with their own, far more profitable businesses, in droves.  Everything had been going well – better than anticipated, even.  If they hadn’t chosen to situate their office in Kaon’s second district – the financial district, where visibility was high and wealth abundant, they might even have been left to continue unhindered, albeit with marginally less success.  But  _that_  was their big mistake, apparently.

Onslaught wouldn’t have taken that particular risk, had he known of the consequences.  But he’d worked the numbers time and again, and Blast Off had confirmed.  There should have been more than enough money to go around.  And yet . . .

 “This can’t be right,” Onslaught growled, pouring over the tablets again and again.  “We’ve exceeded our projected earnings.  How –”

Blast Off nudged one of the data pads on Onslaught’s desk.  “You’re an anti-aircraft truck with a pair of twin cannons welded to your back,” he said, as though that explained everything.  Onslaught scanned the highlighted data pad.

“Insurance rates?”

“Evidently they can get away with charging you more if they think you’re an environmental hazard.”

“A war frame,” Onslaught sighed, the answer painfully obvious.  “We run logistics.  It is our  _job_  to know things like this.  The irony of going under for an unforeseen circumstance of this nature is, I admit, a little suspect.”  His words were articulate, but the attack buried within was clear.   _How could you let this happen?_

“That is the issue,” Blast Off admitted. “At the moment, you are the only mech of your frame type attempting to run a business in Upper Kaon.  It’s not an issue for the bottom-dwellers; the Underground is where the government wants the war frames to stay.  But the rules are different for the surface – evidently due to higher property value.  And your situation is obscure enough as to be easily-overlooked.”

Of course it was, and that fact was likely intentional.  The more thoroughly those ambitious lower castes could be humiliated, the less likely they would be to try to reach beyond their means again.  Onslaught’s fists clenched around the data pad as he brought it closer, pouring through its contents again and again.  So he’d been screwed by an obscure rule; the numbers  _still_  didn’t add up.  “But that can’t possibly account for our inability to supplement our costs.”

Blast Off nudged another data pad.  “Ratbat instated a new, and surprisingly poorly-publicized retroactive tax on start-up businesses for the first through sixth districts.  The timing of the measure would seem to imply that he knows exactly what it is you’re trying to do.  And he clearly doesn’t like it.  Oh, and scroll to page three for the list of all of the new hurdles you have to jump through until you’re making upwards of one hundred thousand shanix a year.”

Onslaught did so, his shoulders slumping with each line he read.  “This can’t possibly be a result of my actions alone.”

Blast Off shrugged.  “A major war just ended.  Seems likely he’s showing off his biggest guns to make sure our influx of returning veterans don’t get any crazy ideas about rising above their station.”

“I thought you had connections to get us past the red tape,” Onslaught growled, setting the data pad down with enough force to make the screen flicker.

“I’ve used every connection I didn’t alienate when I threw my lot in with  _you_.  I’ve invested every last credit of my savings into this project.  It’s not enough.  Even  _I_  cannot compete with the power of a senator.”  In contrast to Onslaught’s brief loss of control, Blast Off remained poised and detached as ever.  Onslaught knew better.  Beneath that calm exterior, Blast Off was seething.

“I see,” he said after a moment.  This situation truly was impossible.  Onslaught wanted nothing more than to rail against the injustice of it all.  He, and thousands of mechs exactly like him, had put their lives on the line, their health, their futures, all to protect their beloved Cybertron and its alien interests.  He had rallied his troops, inspired miracles, through love of a planet that couldn’t even see fit to love them back. 

Onslaught was far from the only mech discharged after the treaty with Quintessa was signed, though unlike most, he was given a choice – stay on with the Primal Vanguard, or return to a civilian life.  Even after a lifetime of fighting, trauma, danger, death, Onslaught had been hesitant to leave.  It was only upon finding that, of all things, his origin and caste would prevent him from reaching the upper echelons of the military hierarchy that he chose to return to Kaon.  He had expected to be hailed a hero, had expected that his awards and commendations would boost his prospects.

He hadn’t expected this.

“So there is no way to legally run a successful business on the surface, so long as I’m involved.”

“It would seem that way,” Blast Off replied.

Another pause, and then, “What about  _illegally_?”  He shouldn’t have even considered the notion –  _wouldn’t_  have, as of yesterday.  But disillusionment was making the idea rather palatable.  He’d risked everything for this world, far more than a mech like Senator Ratbat ever had.  He deserved more than a slow and pitiful death trapped deep beneath the surface, never again to feel the light of the sun on his plating.  And damned if he’d accept such a fate based solely on the manner of his birth.

Blast Off narrowed his optics, distaste evident.  “What do you mean?”

“I  _mean_ ,” said Onslaught, the beginnings of an idea dancing tantalizingly at the edge of his mind, “it seems to me that it is highly unlikely our lovely senators got to where they are today through playing by the rules.  Corruption and scandals headline the news day after day.  And Senator Ratbat’s actions in regards to our current situation reek of a blatant abuse of power.  He has gone out of his way to ensure that it is impossible to earn wealth unless you have wealth to begin with, and in doing so, has lost his right to my obedience.”

A noncommittal grunt was the only response he received.  He took it as encouragement to continue.

“Tell me, Blast Off, why should we bother playing by the rules if _they_  aren’t going to?”

“What do you suggest?” Blast Off murmured, barely audible.  Curious, yet reserved.  And it was no wonder why.  Despite his progress on the downward trek towards poverty, Blast Off still had much farther to fall than Onslaught did.

“We’re going to need an additional source of income; unreported.”

“That’s a dangerous game to play,” Blast Off warned, but he hadn’t outright refused.  He trusted Onslaught at least that far.

“That’s why we’ll play it in the Underground.”

Blast Off’s optics were thin slits now, his arms folded over his generous chest.  “I thought the idea was to break away from the Underground.  It is not my desire to ever again set foot in that horrid place.”

Onslaught was unswayed.  “It is either that, or we part ways,” he sighed, stacking and deactivating each of his data pads.  “We can’t continue this endeavor as we are; you’ve made that much clear.  But if we invest in some under-the-table Underground industries – untraceable funds, deposited into unmarked accounts – we might just be able to pull off our initial goal – we might be able to scrounge up just enough to last us until we reach that hundred thousand shanix milestone.”

“I . . . am not too sure of this,” Blast Off admitted, at length.  “They will undoubtedly question our ability to keep the company afloat despite the regulations.”

“And I have full faith in your ability to fudge the books, Blast Off.”  He was smiling now, as the plan solidified further.  His attention was divided, half absorbing Blast Off’s uncertain reaction, on the look-out for any sign of imminent cooperation, the other running a handful of potential scenarios, seeking out the best course of action.  When he next opened his mouth to speak, the words that came out were more subdued, conspiratorial.  “I need to keep my reputation clean, as a Delta, but  _you_  have infinitely more freedom . . .”  He trailed off, pondering how best to breach his newest scheme with his partner.

“Yes,” Blast Off agreed, slowly.  “Though I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this.”

Onslaught retracted his mask, to make his confident expression all the clearer.  “I happen to know that the nobility loves a good pit fight – you should blend right in at a game, no questions asked, no risk to your name or reputation.  Not strictly legal, per se, but tattling on any noble who attends one of these matches is going to open up one big can of scraplets that I think most mechs would rather avoid.  And any punishment you receive for it will be a slap on the wrist, so long as they cannot trace your presence back to me.”

Blast Off stood up a little straighter, already more receptive.  “I’m listening.”

“Find us a fighter to sponsor – preferably someone dumb and desperate enough to work for cheap – fifty shanix a match, maybe?  There ought to be plenty in the pool right now, all things considered.  We’ll fix up his fights until he’s a guaranteed money magnet.  From there, playing the Underground should be easier, and our interests up here will be protected, barring any further retroactive measures on the part of Senator Ratbat.  We could be making even more money than before!”  His optics gleamed at the prospect.

“I’m sorry,” Blast Off’s monotone voice interrupted his gleeful vision of a wealth-filled future. “You want me to go to a coliseum match, alone?”  How like him to fixate on such details.

“Use one of your Alpha connections,” Onslaught shrugged.  “Just two nobles looking for a good time.  Take the opportunity to observe our options, and tell me what you find.”

“With all due respect,  _Onslaught_ ,” Blast Off was looking him in the optic now, no longer angry, but deadly serious.  “This is an incredibly risky maneuver for very little payoff.  Unless you find another Megatronus, and you won’t for what you’re paying, we’re not going to be making much with coliseum battles alone – certainly not enough to offset our costs.  I would like to express my concern.  One wrong move will have us in prison, or worse.

Blast Off wasn’t wrong.  The plan  _was_  risky, and betting on coliseum fights would be unsustainable in the long run.  But a top gladiator would lead to all sorts of Underground connections; the sponsors were responsible for setting up the matches, after all, and only the wealthy could afford sponsorship.  All Onslaught had to do was get his foot in the door; the rest of the opportunities would unfold before him, so long as he played them right.  And until that time, the most difficult task on his plate would be keeping his tenuous hold on his position in Upper Kaon.

“Blast Off,” he said, voice cheery.  “You and I have faced far worse than this, and I got us through each and every time we did.  Trust me, just as I trust you.  We’re going to be living the dream; there are a few hurdles more than we’d anticipated, but it will be done.  You and I are going to change the world.”

For a long moment, Blast Off kept his optics fixed on his own folded arms, his expression obscured by his mask.  In the past, he’d always been eager to follow Onslaught’s orders, at least once Onslaught’s victory record had been established.  But this wasn’t battle; this was economics, politics – areas in which Blast Off had far more experience.  Hesitancy was to be expected.  But so too was his inevitable acquiescence. 

When his purple optics flickered up to meet Onslaught’s, that was the moment Onslaught knew he had won.  Blast Off would follow him anywhere, all for the sake of making his mark on the world in a way sticking to his own lot in life would never allow.

“Understood.  I’ll get in touch with Aphelion.  We can be down there by the week’s end.”

Onslaught’s smile was gleaming.  “Thank you, Blast Off.  I promise you, this will be the start of something excellent.”

 


	2. Electric Oasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blast Off journeys to Kaon's seedy Underground in hope of finding a miracle gladiator for Onslaught.

Blast Off didn’t want to be here.  He was a space shuttle, an Alpha Caste – the cream of the crop.  Watching dejected war veterans and common street rats, thugs, and criminals beat each other senseless for amusement was beneath him.  Most things were, to be honest, but the idea of coliseums – of taking pleasure in the pain of the lower castes had always struck Blast Off as distasteful.

The Altihex Accord demanded a mandatory three vorn enlistment in the Primal Vanguard for twenty-five percent of its population, as the Shuttle homeland did not produce war frames of its own.  Blast Off had been unlucky enough to be drafted in the middle of a war, had served as an orbital sniper, surveillance officer, and getaway transport all in one.  He had seen true bloodshed, had taken lives out of necessity, had hated every minute of it.  And yet, here he was, watching the horrors of war be recreated for sport.  Violence didn’t faze him anymore, but he couldn’t take pleasure in this, and he couldn’t understand those who could.

Aphelion could.  His friend from his Academy Days, a noble who had never experienced real violence in his life, was hooting and hollering just as much as the common riff raff.  Blast Off sighed, wishing for the world that he was anywhere else.  If anyone other than Onslaught had asked, he wouldn’t be here right now.

“Lighten up, Blast Off.  We’re in Underground Kaon.  It’s our chance to have a little bit of fun, don’t you think?”  Aphelion had turned away from the fighting, his demeanor at once calm, more befitting of his noble heritage, though a twinkle of excitement remained in his cyan eyes.

“It’s all very inelegant, don’t you think?”  Blast Off rested an elbow on his thigh, chin in hand.  The position was a little awkward, but boredom was sapping his ability to remain upright.

“I think it’s exciting!  Two mechs, locked in combat, fighting for their lives.  This is the stuff stories are made of.”

“Indeed,” Blast Off pretended to agree.  To his audials, Aphelion sounded young and naïve.  But there was no point in arguing; he needed the other mech’s presence here.  Like the Pit was he going to wander the Underground, particularly  _Kaon’s_  Underground, on his own.  He’d learned that lesson last time.  And having a companion made his own presence down here marginally less jarring, should someone work out what he and Onslaught were up to.  The unseemly idiot was a necessary evil.

But that didn’t stop Blast Off from correcting his companion’s error of fact.  “Though you’d be hard-pressed to describe this as a ‘fighting for their lives.’  Murder is frowned upon at this stage.” 

‘This stage’ was, of course, the ‘Street Tier,’ a weekly tournament that occurred after the main event was wrapped up.  It was open to any member of the public, though participation was easily manageable.  After all, the prize for victory was not cash nor fuel, but potential sponsorship.  Street Tier existed as a chance for new fighters to earn the right to participate in the real battles.  Death wasn’t forbidden, but most mechs preferred to leave their opponent alive, not for morality’s sake, but for fear of being drafted into the Gold League.  Most gladiators were fighting for survival, rather than glory – signing up for a weekly death match stood counter to that end.  Silver Leaguers were paid less, but at least they tended to come home after their fights.

Blast Off had never realized how much there was to these pit fights before this week.  It was a surprisingly well-run industry, particularly for something of such dubious legality.  It didn’t make them any more interesting.

“You’re such a spoil sport,” Aphelion pouted, folding his arms over his chest, and returning his attention to the tournament floor, where one mech was limping back into the holding area, while the other was carried out on a stretcher.  It seemed that he’d missed out on an uncharacteristically brutal match.  Wasn’t that a shame?

“That was Sidewind versus Big Daddy.  Winner: Big Daddy.”  The enthusiastic voice of the announcer echoed throughout the sparsely-filled coliseum.  According to his research, there were some mechs that could fill the stands to capacity – a fighter named Megatronus, most notorious amongst them.  However, Street Tier wasn’t exactly a popular event.  The announcer continued.  “Next up – it’s tank versus tank, a battle of juggernauts, both coming back from vorns of pummeling Quintessons to pulp. 

“Coming in from the East Wing, standing at thirty-three feet tall and clocking in at a sturdy sixty tons, it’s the desert horror, Armorhide!”  A smattering of cheers erupted as a tank sporting a tan camo paint job stepped onto the floor.

“And, from the West Wing, standing a colossal thirty-one feet tall and outweighing his opponent by a mere two tons, I give you, the Quintesson Killer, Brawl!”  Blast Off jerked to attention.  Had he just said . . . ?

Indeed, on the floor far below, a familiar green mech strode out, cocky as he ever was, slamming his fists together and screaming in a show that would have been quite intimidating for a lesser mech.  His opponent was unmoved.

“Tank caught you optic, Blast Off?”

“I know him,” Blast Off explained, slumping again, though his attention did not wane.  “He was in my unit back in the war.”

“And old war buddy, eh?”  Aphelion scratched his chin.  “Is he any good?”

Blast Off thought back to another time, another planet – recalled a bold fighter, determined, even in the face of impossible odds.  He wasn’t the smartest, the most graceful, and Primus knew he couldn’t keep quiet to save his life, but he was powerful, reliable; Blast Off was glad to have had a mech like that watching his back.  Yes.  Brawl was good.  And yet . . .

“Well, the nickname’s not a lie, at least,” Blast Off shrugged.  “He was a good soldier, but I don’t know how that will translate to single combat, let alone against an opponent that matches him in size and strength.  I suppose we’ll see.”  Despite his nonchalance, Blast Off couldn’t help but hope for Brawl to win.

It would make finding a mech to sponsor all the easier.

~~~

Brawl won his fight with Armorhide via knockout.  He then went on to win his next three battles, being taken out in the semi-finals by a Speedster, of all things.  He placed fourth overall, high enough to suit Onslaught’s purposes.  The only real trouble would be convincing him to take a salary of a mere fifty shanix a match, least of all when he had a handful of other nobles vying for his attention.  A crowd of five mechs, boasting the flashy paintjobs and impractical spires popular amongst wealthy grounders, had already gathered around him, by the time Blast Off and Aphelion arrived.

“Your friend is popular,” Aphelion commented.

“So he is.”  But Blast Off wasn’t worried yet.  He still had a few weapons at his disposal.  “Don’t fall too far behind.”  It was all the warning he gave before striding off across the pavilion, long legs making the journey in seconds.  Once there, it was just a matter of elbowing past all of these pathetic, diminutive grounders, no hard feat when he stood a head and a half above the tallest.  Brawl couldn’t help but look his way, his overwhelmed expression giving way to a smile of recognition, understood even while obscured by a battle mask.

“Blast Off!  Long time no see!  I didn’t know  _you_  were in the audience.  Woulda given a better show.”

“You did well enough, regardless, it would seem.”

“Yeah,” Brawl laughed.  “Shouldn’t a’ let that Speedster get that trick shot in though.  It was a cheap win.”  Blast Off had no reply to that, though Brawl, thankfully, seemed eager to keep the conversation going.  “So uh . . .” he paused, his hands fidgeted, grasping for the words to say.  “How’s Onslaught?”

Blast Off stiffened.  “Onslaught?”

“Yeah,” Brawl continued, with more confidence this time.  “I heard you two was workin’ together still.  Kinda jealous.  Don’t suppose you need some firepower?”  This was the opening Blast Off needed, and yet, he didn’t like the scenario he’d found himself in.  Brawl was receptive; that much was clear, but spilling the details of Onslaught’s master plan in the midst of a gaggle of preening nobles seemed more than a little unwise.  Not for the first time, he wished he had Onslaught’s knack for leading a situation in his favor.

“Whatever he offers you, I’ll double it!” boasted a green and yellow speedster, young, and more than a little foolish.  Brawl turned his attention downward, towards his agitated suitors.  Knowing Brawl, he wasn’t exactly comfortable at the moment either, though for different reason.  An adept fighter he may have been, but a master strategist, he was not.  Choosing a sponsor required thought, planning, carefully weighed considerations, and the willpower to put those skills to use under pressure.  It wasn’t always a matter of accepting the highest offer; that was a good way to get killed in a fixed Gold League match.  Brawl was the type that liked to be told where to go and what to do; he must have been in Hell right now. 

“Uh . . .” he stuttered, fidgeting again. 

“You’re not too far from the mark,” Blast Off cut in, ignoring the Speedster’s comment, and bodily shifting himself between Brawl and the brunt of the offer-makers, “but I’d rather discuss this somewhere a little more private.  Over drinks perhaps?”

Orange optics lit up, as though Blast Off had offered Brawl not drinks, but a luxury condo in the Towers.

“Yeah!” he exclaimed, clapping Blast Off on the shoulder.  “I know just the place!”

~~~

It wasn’t exactly what Blast Off had in mind.

Loud music pounded from the bar’s sound system, or what Blast Off  _thought_  was supposed to be music.  It was difficult to tell over the thunderous stomping of a few dozen inebriated dancers.  The dim purple lights around the room’s periphery reflected off the white smoke that crawled out over the dance floor, creating the illusion that the space was brighter than it was.  Every so often, the DJ would flash her headlights in time to the music, though she didn’t quite hit the mark on the discotheque effect she was going for, not that anyone seemed to mind.  Evidently  _Electric Oasis_  was a popular club in lower Kaon – the chance for a down-on-his-luck bot to blow what little cash he had on a night of fun.  Blast Off thought it was irresponsible, but according to Brawl it ‘helped to take the edge off.’  Whatever  _that_  meant.

“So,” Brawl said, plopping a cube of suspiciously thick neon green mystery liquid in front of the both of them.  Blast Off vowed not to touch it.  “Let’s talk business.”

“Yes, let’s,” Blast Off agreed, subtly pushing his cube to the side.  He gave a quick glance back to the dance floor, to check on Aphelion, who was already smashed, and flailing around like the common rabble, swapping his precious, noble paint with the many chassis he happened to grind against.  Blast Off shook his head, disdainfully.

“He looks like he’s having fun,” Brawl laughed. 

“He looks like a fool,” Blast Off countered.  “Are you sure any of that counts as dancing?  It looks more like interfacing en masse.”

Brawl’s hearty guffaw was as grating as ever.  A few of the surrounding mechs peered into their booth to see what the ruckus was about, though they lost interest quickly enough.

“You’re still uptight as ever,” he said, once he’d at last calmed down.  “Wouldn’t know fun if it smacked you upside the head.”

“I know how to have fun,” Blast Off countered.  “I just don’t consider making a mechanimal of myself to come anywhere near the concept.”

Brawl offered a sour look and took a swig of his drink.  “You should try it.”  He gestured towards the pile of radioactive sludge sitting to Blast Off’s left.  “It’s good.  Nightmare Fuel.  Strong stuff – strongest you can get down here.  Legally, anyway.  Knock a Speedster off its feet from the fumes alone.”

“Well  _that’s_  an exaggeration,” Blast Off groaned.

“No way!” Brawl chuckled.  “I seen it happen.  Now go on, drink up.  I know you got that shuttle constitution.”

Blast Off glanced back at Aphelion.  “Is that what you gave  _him_?”

“Nah,” Brawl shook his head.  “He got Nucleon-Enriched Engex – just to be safe.  But I think I saw your friend palling around with the Booster-heads, so who knows  _what_  he’s on.”

‘Booster-heads?’  Blast Off wasn’t even going to ask.  He reached for his cube and gave it a swish, cringing at the sluggish movement from the liquids within.  This was going to gum up his lines; he just knew it.

“Come on, Blast Off!  I don’t wanna talk business sober.  You know that stuff bores the scrap outta me.”

_And that’s why you’re living in the slums,_  Blast Off didn’t say.  What he  _did_  say was, “If I drink it, will you shut up?”

“Uh, I thought you  _wanted_  to talk?”

He really had forgotten how dense Brawl could be.  “Never mind.”  If it moved the conversation along, Blast Off would lower his standards.  Disabling his olfactory sensors, and shuttering his optics, he lifted the cube to his lips and took a quick swig.

It was . . . not terrible.  It burned on the way down, warming his circuits with every inch it traveled.  The taste was acrid, cheap but not unpleasant, and significantly less sticky than he’d been expecting.  Still, it wasn’t exactly a Paxian Twenty-Eight or Carpessian Forty-Two.

“So uh . . .”

“You asked me about Onslaught,” Blast Off began, steering the conversation forward.

“Yeah!  I heard you and him was working together.  Doin’ some . . . business-y thing, I dunno.  Pinpoint tried to explain it to me, but . . . eh.  I’m more of a blow stuff up kind o’ guy, y’know?”

“Yes.  I know.”  Blast Off covered the ensuing awkward silence with another sip of Nightmare Fuel.  Perhaps he’d been a bit too rude there.  “I admit though, we’ve run into a bit more . . . trouble than initially anticipated.”

“Trouble, eh?” Brawl’s visor lit up.  “Like what?  Blackmail?  Ex – extor – ex-TOR-mination?”

“Extortion,” Blast Off corrected, “And no.  We’ve run into some bureaucratic nonsense that I won’t bore you with.”

“Thanks.”

“All  _you_  need to know, is that Onslaught has a plan to come out on top, and we just so happen to need a gladiator in the loop.”

“I’m in!”  How like Brawl to agree to something without knowing the details.  Were Blast Off the sort to take advantage, Brawl would be an easy target.  But Blast Off was not so despicable.

“I suggest you wait to hear what you’re agreeing to before you answer,” Blast Off sighed, casting his minute-ly glance back out to the dance floor.  Aphelion hadn’t been kidnapped yet.  He was fine.

“Why wait?  I ain’t gonna pretend to know what you guys are up to, but it’s Onslaught.  He ain’t steered me wrong yet.”

It figured  _now_  of all times, was when Brawl decided to be disagreeable.  Blast Off was going to get his terms and conditions out one way or another.  “Look,” he slapped his palms against the table to emphasize his statement.  “The point I’m trying to make here, is that we’re in a bit of a financial bind right now.  We can only afford to pay you fifty shanix a match for the time being.”

Brawl grimaced.  “Only fifty?  Onslaught’s a real cheapskate, y’know?”  Yes.  Blast Off was well aware.

“You will, of course, be subject to raises, for good performance.”  Onslaught hadn’t said as much, but Blast Off figured he’d be agreeable enough. 

Brawl’s engine rumbled, presumably from the intense effort thinking caused him.  After a moment, he took another swig of his drink, slamming it down on the table, and wiping his lips with the back of a bulky arm.  “What is the odds I’ll be able to live up on the surface?”

Blast Off thought it over for a moment.  “Fairly high, I’d say, at least once we get out of this initial slump.  You do your part, and I will personally buy you a condo in District Four.  I’ll even handle the paperwork.”

The rumble of Brawl’s engine grew louder, and he stared down into his cube, uncharacteristically contemplative.  “You’re lucky,” he said at last, “that I trust Onslaught.  Nobody else could get away with something like this.”

A nod was the only response Blast Off could think to give.

“But I just . . . I really hate it down here, y’know?”  This time, the growl of his engine had nothing to do with thinking too hard.  “We spend all that time fighting the Quints to protect our world, and then we come back, and our world don’t want us.  How slagged up is that?”

“Very.”

“Exactly!  We veterans shouldn’t be living in the slums, just ‘cause we’re war frames.  That’s stupid!  Not like I’m gonna go blow someone up, just ‘cause I’m a tank.  I may be dumb, but I’m not crazy!”  What happened next was a miracle Blast Off had never imagined he’d live to see.  Brawl lowered his voice, to a bare mumble.  It was only just audible above the incessant screech of the music.  “I just . . . I wanna see the sun again.”

The following silence would have been far more poignant in any other atmosphere, but in the club, the lights and sounds were far too distracting to let any heartfelt confession truly sink in.  All Blast Off needed to understand, was that Brawl was agreeable to Onslaught’s conditions.  How fortuitous.

“So yeah,” he finished.  “I’m in.  I wanna work for Onslaught again, ‘cause I know, if anyone can get me outta this shithole, it’s him.”  With that said, he downed the rest of his cube, then wobbled to his feet.  “Uh, be right back,’ he said, toddling off to the bar for another round. 

This was good – better than Blast Off could have hoped for.  Fate had been kind enough to place everything he’d needed right in front of him.  He had been blessed with a powerful gladiator, a trusted ally, and a schmuck willing to work for table scraps, all wrapped up in one convenient package.  And that package had said ‘yes.’  The mission was completed before it had scarcely begun.  Onslaught was sure to be pleased.  And when Onslaught was pleased, further good fortune was certain to follow.  There was a reason Blast Off continued to follow him, and it wasn’t out of affection or brotherhood.  He would not have thrown away his future for such paltry things. 

Onslaught had a habit of making the impossible possible.  Under his leadership, his unit had faced insurmountable odds, and come out on top again and again.  When he spoke, it was always with a cool confidence, a certainty that he not only would reach whatever goal he sought, but that he’d already worked out how to get there.  He was amazing – a Delta with the poise and disposition of an Alpha, no, of a Senator.  In Altihex, Blast Off was owed a lucrative future in the prestigious field of space exploration – not a bad bet.  In Kaon, however, under Onslaught’s lead, he had the potential for so much more.

He was alone in the booth now – just him and his drink, and like the Pit was he going to find himself drunk in public.  It had been a few minutes since he’d last checked on his embarrassment of a travel companion; it was probably about time to make sure he was still alive.  It would certainly be a more productive use of his time, at least.

It took a moment to find him, buried in the middle of the crowd.  Shuttles were tall, but amongst the Miners, the Tanks, and the Heavyweight Trucks, even  _Aphelion_  melted away.  In the end, it was actually the set of rotors that drew Blast Off’s eye, bobbing and swaying rhythmically in time to the music, entrancing in their own way.  Attached to the rotors was, of course, a Rotary mech, grey and teal, and getting  _way_  too familiar with a certain wayward shuttle.  It was probably best to nip that in the bud right there.  Speedsters and Two Wheelers were one thing, but Blast Off did  _not_  trust his pampered pal with an Underground War Frame, even one that was so much smaller than him.

[ _Aphelion,_ ] he commed.  [ _Don’t get too friendly with the locals._ ]

Aphelion’s face shot up, from where it had been buried in the Rotary’s neck.  His unfocused optics narrowed, but he acquiesced, disentangling the bot’s legs from around his waist, and offering a conciliatory (and rather condescending) pat on the head to his ‘dance’ partner, before returning to the booth.

“Why are you – why are –  _you_  – so determined to uh . . . to not let anyone else have any fun?” Aphelion slurred, sliding onto the soft seat of the booth.  “Whoa, head rush,” he giggled.

“I don’t much fancy having to explain to Equinox how you got your T-Cog jacked.”

“My T-Cog?” he repeated.  “Do they – uh, do they really take those?  I thought it was only in movies.”

“They really do,” Blast Off confirmed.  “I told you about the time I got lost down here, right?  Right before they shipped me off to Animatron?”

“Yeah.”

“I saw much in my brief stay that, suffice it to say, I rather wish I could unsee.  The Underground is not a place for the naïve or flighty.  Mechs down here are predators, plain and simple.  They  _will_  take advantage of an easy target.  Please be on guard.”

“And you wanna make it so these predators can live up on the surface?”

Blast Off fell silent.  Admittedly, his own prejudices burned strong.  But Onslaught had seemed to think it a good idea, and if Onslaught thought so, then so too, did Blast Off, regardless of what his instincts told him.

“Y’know what  _I_  think?” Aphelion blurted, waving his hand around aimlessly.

“Do I  _want_  to know?”

“I think –  _I_  think, that you’re jealous.”

“Jealous?” Blast Off scoffed.  “Of what?  A two credit pleasurebot from Lower Kaon?  Not likely.”

“Nah, not  _him_.  You’re jealous of  _me._ ‘Cause  _I_ know how to have a good time.”

“ _You_  know how to get the sort of diseases one can’t talk about in polite company.”  Blast Off folded his arms, but his optics were still fixed on those entrancing rotors.  The mech in question had latched onto a behemoth of an Industrial Energon Harvester, thankfully unperturbed by the loss of his former partner.

“Yeah,” Aphelion snorted, following Blast Off’s line of sight.  “You are  _so_  jealous.”

Blast Off had nothing to say to that.

~~~

He could deny it all he wanted, it didn’t change the fact that Blast Off’s attention remained fixed on that little Copter and his thrice-damned rotors for the rest of the evening.  Mercifully, Brawl and Aphelion were far too drunk to pay Blast Off any mind.  The former had started up an off-key drinking song with the booth next to them – a song which, to Blast Off’s increased irritation, clashed horribly with the music pumping from the speakers – and the latter had passed out, his head flat on the table, leaking a disgusting amount of oral solvents.  Hopefully he’d get over it by closing time.  Blast Off wasn’t looking forward to lugging around  _that_  mess, least of all in a No-Fly zone.

_It’s the Nightmare Fuel_ , he told himself, in a sad effort to justify the effect a couple of wiggly blades was having on him.   _I’m just overcharged.  That’s all it is._   To prove his point, he gave his cube, the same Brawl had offered him  _hours_  ago, a quick swish.  Yes.  Engex.  That’s all it was.

The Engex was the reason why he had watched one little mech jump from partner, to partner, to partner all night long, relishing in the glares and protestations he got for his efforts.  It seemed that  _somebody_  was trying to start a fight.

_Typical Helicopter behavior._

But there were no fights to be had.  The drunks remained merry and amenable all through the night, until the DJ switched from upbeat dances to a series of down-tempo ballads.  Until the smoke at last cleared from the dance floor, and the lights came up.  Until the chatter and stomping and chaos began to fade.  The bar would be closing soon, but Brawl didn’t seem eager to leave yet, and Aphelion was still fast asleep.

The Rotary was, of course, still floating around, enticing as ever.

Blast Off growled, shaking his head to chase away the thought.  Yes.  It was just the Engex.  And another swig would fix everything.  He lifted the cube to his lips, vision obscured by that ever-blinding shade of green, and finally finished off the remaining liquid, relishing in the burn.  There.  That was better.

And once he slammed the now-empty cube back on the table, causing Brawl to jump, then burst out in a fit of drunken laughter, he realized that the Rotary was no longer dancing.  It took a moment to find him, slinking towards the exit, surprisingly alone.  Surely a mech so brazen would have found a date? 

Whatever.  It was none of Blast Off’s business who a total stranger left with.  And it was still none of Blast Off’s business when the Harvester from earlier followed suit, a wicked grin on his face, claws clenched at his sides.  The timing was concerning, true, but the events were likely unrelated.

Blast Off didn’t care.  It was none of his business.

“It’s a bit stuffy in here,” he said, standing up.  “Keep an optic on Aphelion for me, would you?  I’ll be back shortly.”

“Sure thing!” Brawl laughed, raising his fifth cube of the night in a cheery toast.  Perhaps it was a mistake to leave an unconscious noble in Brawl’s care?

No.  If there was one thing Brawl could do, it was follow orders.  They’d be fine.

And so, without so much as stumbling, Blast Off stepped away from the booth, past the dance floor, and slipped out into the icy, cloying air of the Underground. 

The District Ten factories leaked heavy, toxic gases from their production at a steady rate.  During the day, the fumes were stirred up and dispersed by the hustle and bustle of people, but at night, when most mechs returned home, the gases had time to pool in the empty, ill-ventilated streets, painting entire neighborhoods in a sickly purple haze, and clogging the vents of anyone unfortunate enough to be out in it.  Leaving the club had been a mistake.

A sharp cry, quickly muffled caught Blast Off’s audial, followed by a heavy thud.  His thoughts turned to that little Rotary again, and how very small it had looked hanging off of the Harvester as they danced . . . or tried to combine into a single entity, back on the floor of the club.  War Frame or not, it wouldn’t stand a chance should such a creature turn on it.  Blast Off pulled his blaster from subspace – he never left home without it, a habit he’d picked up during the war, and his Alpha Caste status allowed him to do so without question.  Ready to come upon one more grisly Underworld scene, he stepped into a nearby alley, following the sound.

It took a few kliks of meandering, but soon enough, he rounded a corner and stumbled right into the gruesome scene he’d been expecting.

Well, maybe not  _exactly_  what he’d been expecting.

The Harvester was on the ground, unmoving, though his mouth hung wide open in a silent scream.  Half of his throat had been ripped out, ensuring he remained quiet, so as to draw no further attention.  Sparks fizzled from the wound every so often, but there was a surprising lack of free-flowing energon for such a debilitating injury; the primary fuel lines must have been cauterized with a torch.  Evidently, the attacker didn’t want to make a mess.

The attacker, in this case, was that grey Rotary from before, his frame comically small atop his industrial-sized victim.  Blast Off wasn’t sure how he’d managed to single-handedly take down such a beast, though the sparks flying from each of his major joints explained why he was still down.  Each and every line required for movement had been severed – cauterized.  It would have taken a scientific precision to perform such a feat.  Who was this Copter?

Most horrifying of all, Blaster noticed, was the fact that the Harvester was still alive; his EM field was screaming across the narrow alley, begging for someone to relieve him of his misery.  It was clear to Blast Off that the sadistic little Copter was relishing the torture, from the way he sat, straddled across his victim’s broad chest, grinding in his hips, pressing their frames close, as though they were lovers rather than  _this_ – from the way his digits, transformed into pin-point talons, caressed each and every wire he snapped, every seam he ripped apart, every mechanism he pulled from the trembling frame – from the way his own field flared with glee, the brightness of his optics, the relaxed posture of his rotors.  The Harvester wasn’t going to survive the encounter, but it was clear he wouldn’t be dying any time soon.

And now Blast Off was here, in this alley, with a deranged murderer and an incapacitated behemoth.  Even armed, he wasn’t confident he’d survive if the Rotary noticed him . . .

_How did he take this guy down?!  It doesn’t make any sense!_

Blast Off hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t allowed his EM field to extend from his frame, or given any other sign of his presence, and yet that gleaming red visor had torn itself away from the whimpering victim, fixing its morbid gaze on Blast Off.  He cringed inwardly, and aimed his blaster.

_Frag._

“Well,” said the Copter, so casually, they may have been talking over drinks, rather than a soon-to-be corpse, “this is awkward.”

Blast Off was fast.  Blast Off was a trained soldier.  Blast Off should have been able to kill the little monster before it had the chance to pull its energon-stained arms from the Harvester’s chest.  But Blast Off was shocked, and perhaps a bit more overcharged than he’d realized.  He fired his weapon, but his aim was wide, instead taking out a nearby dumpster, and spilling its contents across the already filthy alley.

And the moment of incompetence was all the time the little guy needed to pull his own gun, point it at Blast Off, and fire.

. . .

. . .

. . .


	3. Thrill Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life in the Underground has treated Vortex well enough, but a chance meeting with Blast Off is about to change that.

Vortex had gotten too carried away.

He didn’t regret it; he was a mech physically incapable of regret.  However, if he’d had the means to go back and change anything about that night, he probably would have found himself a more discreet place to dispose of Dead-Ringer. 

He’d seen the Shuttle watching him throughout the night.  Of course he was bound to follow.  Shuttles were nosy, at least in his experience.  It only made sense that Mr. Heroic would interrupt a perfectly legitimate assassination/harvesting party (and Vortex had so loved the irony of a Harvester getting harvested) to save an innocent little Rotary (hah!) from being gruesomely murdered.  Thank Primus the guy was a lousy shot.  The situation would have turned out quite differently otherwise.

As it was, the Shuttle lay sprawled out in the mouth of this twisting backstreet, unconscious.  Vortex moved in for a closer look, crawling from atop the massive frame of the dead Harvester, and creeping along the soot-covered ground, until he’d resumed a similar position, straddling the Shuttle’s waist.  He took in the surprisingly dull matte brown of the mech’s paintjob, the broad swell of his chest, the flat planes of his helm.  He had a familiar look about him.

_Frag._

It was for the best that the mech had plating suited for atmospheric re-entry – otherwise, the shot from Vortex’s gun might have killed him.  And while anyone else in the guy’s position would have found himself dead at Vortex’s mercy,  _Blast Off_  wasn’t allowed such luxury. 

_It_ was  _Blast Off, wasn’t it?_

Killing a noble was a headache he didn’t want to deal with right now, even if it had been one he didn't give a damn about, and that wasn’t the case here.  Lucky Blast Off.  It wasn’t just murder that was off the table either.  Busting into a no doubt heavily-encrypted subspace would be more trouble than it was worth.  Still, that didn’t mean he had to leave the encounter empty-handed.

He shimmied up Blast Off’s belly, and draped himself over his chest once he could shimmy no more, enjoying the warm, steady buzz of that powerful engine beneath him.  Bracing his elbows on the mech’s clavicle, he pulled a cable from his right wrist, and brought it around to the back of Blast Off’s neck, groping for the access point at the top of his spinal strut for just a moment.  There: he was in.

The firewalls of an Alpha Caste mech were no joke, but the Shuttle’s state of unconsciousness gave Vortex the assist he needed. Finding Blast Off’s comm frequency was easy.  Granting himself administrator access was marginally less so, but Vortex was well-practiced.  Ten minutes was all it took to grant him everything his twisted spark desired – in this case, an open door into every move that foolish Shuttle would make until the day came that he realized he’d been hacked, and inevitably reformatted his comm.  If Vortex played his cards right, he’d net himself a year of top secret Alpha intel, with minimal effort.  It was the least the guy could offer in exchange for his life.

Vortex withdrew, slumping over that inert frame as he returned to his own senses.  He’d always loved the feel of larger, sturdier mechs beneath him, bent to his will, trapped at his mercy.  It was a major head trip, at least in the proper circumstances, but as he could neither kill nor maim Blast Off without suffering unwanted ramifications, the thrill came across muted, grey as his own dull plating.  With a disappointed sigh, he pried himself from that warm, heavy frame, and hoisted first himself, and then Blast Off to his feet, supporting the Shuttle’s considerable weight on a shoulder, and adjusting his rotors to help hold the awkward position.

The trek back to the bar was long – much longer than it had been coming out here.  The second body was weighing him down, straining his smaller frame more than he would have liked to admit.  It would have been so much easier to cut him down into little pieces, shove him into his subspace, and drop him off bit by bit by bit.  More fun, too.

The thought of enacting that exact fantasy with Dead-Ringer was all that kept him moving onward, all that got the two of them back to the bar, thankfully unseen in the dark of the Kaon night cycle. 

Vortex dropped his load to the ground, a bit less carefully than he’d intended.  He winced, imagining the dents the rough, uneven ground would carve into that smooth, well-kept plating, but it wasn’t worth worrying over.  As far as anyone knew, the mech had drank too much Nightmare Fuel and passed out.  No reason to entertain the notion that Vortex was to blame for it, save for the half-remembered fever dream of his victim.  But who would believe that a noblemech had stumbled upon such a grim scene, and come out with his life, limb, and loot intact?  Even Blast Off would have his doubts; Vortex was sure of it.

He scurried back into the black alleyways, eager to finish up his current task, even as he contemplated what future treasures he’d win from the night’s second victim.

~~~

“Here you are!  Mint condition, Voyager-grade t-cog, plucked fresh last night!”

Swindle held the mechanism in a pair of graviton tongs, using his oversized optics to view each and every detail at up to one hundred times magnification, as it spun, suspended in air.  “You say ‘mint condition.’  I see scratches,” he said, as though whatever microscopic imperfection he saw should have been obvious.

“Oh c’mon, Swindle.  I was perfectly gentle.”

“I’m sure,” was the retorted scoff.  Dilated pupils irised out, reverting to a more natural size.  “Five hundred credits.”

Swindle was scamming him, to the surprise of no one.  The t-cog was worth  _at least_  twenty shanix, but Vortex knew better than to argue.  Swindle was one of the more reliable merchants in lower Kaon.  He may have been a major cheapskate, but at least his goods worked as described.  And he was no stranger to cutting deals with his regulars, if he felt it would ensure their continued patronage. 

Vortex weighed his options; would it be worth it to haggle?  Harvesting internal mechanisms was a risky business, but certain bits of a bot’s frame could be converted into rather impressive tech.  Swindle would no doubt resell the t-cog to a weapons manufacturer (with no mention of the itty bitty imaginary flaw, of course), and make five times its worth, even more if he earned the rights to sell the resulting weapon.  He could more than afford to cut Vortex a bigger slice of the pie.  On the other hand, Vortex  _had_  rather enjoyed taking out his victim, and the five hundred shanix earned for the assassination had him well in the blacka for the lunar cycle.  Add in the two hundred forty-five credits he’d netted from the rest of Dead-Ringer’s mechanisms, and there was no reason to risk annoying one of his better business partners.  Who else was he supposed to sell high-profile illegal goods to?

“You cut a hard bargain, Swindle,” he sighed.  “But very well.  Five hundred credits it is.  Just don’t get used to my generosity.”

“But what a generous mech you  _are_.”  He moved the t-cog into a protective case, then pulled a data pad from his subspace, plucking away with a practiced familiarity.  “There you are, buddy.  Seven hundred forty-five for the lot.  Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Same.”

~~~

Vortex sprawled on his trashed sofa, blades burying themselves in permanently worn divots in the malleable surface, and watching the numbers in his comm account decrease with morose detachment.  He didn’t care about the money; it was means to an end.  He wasn’t desperate for a roof over his head, or fuel in his tanks – those would always be a happy side effect of his hobbies.  And yet, the indignity of it all ate at him.

In the Underground, faced with the despair of a hopeless existence, wherein most of its victims knew better than to dream of escape, there were only two ways for a mech to get by.  The first was to give in, accept that miserable lot in life with a quiet grace, allow a never-ending stream of suffering to wear at the spark until death inevitably claimed you.  The second was to game the system, take advantage of that first kind of mech, and fight to make the most of what little was available.  Vortex was a war frame; he wasn’t coded for victimhood.

As a member of the Untouchable Caste – no real identity to be had, he had no hope of making his way to the surface, where laws and regulations ruled supreme.  Long ago, he’d come to accept the fact that he would never again feel the light of the sun on his plating, never again have the opportunity to take to the sky, to feel the wind over his rotors.  After coming to terms with that, his life had improved immensely.

He was strong, crafty, lived for stimulation – pain and pleasure alike.  He loved the thrill of danger, of picking fights with mechs five times his size, of manipulating the prideful, of treading the line between life and death.  He had no shame, no dignity, and no honor.  In essence, he was perfectly suited to thrive in an environment that claimed so many souls.

But even he wasn’t on top.  Catalyst and Modulator alike had claimed their share of the day’s earnings – the payment incurred for the honor of being allowed to conduct business in such a place.  When all was said and done, he’d have just enough for a nice cube of engex and a partner for the night, were he the type to pay for such things, anyway.  When you were charming enough, most things came free.

But every so often, there came the days when his boundless energy gave out.  He’d kept a late night, and lugging a Space Shuttle around had been more exhausting than he cared to admit.  Now was the time to ingest some Syk, lounge about his shabby apartment, and avoid thinking too hard about anything – not a difficult feat with the warm buzz of a full tank imagining its way through his frame, filling him with a floaty lethargy.  Who needed high grade when it was so easy to fake the sensation of satiation?

But though the corners of his vision were beginning to turn purple, he remained awake, aware, and distressingly bored, and for a mech like Vortex, boredom was the worst sin.  He may not have had the energy to go outside and play, or the coordination, by this point, but there were other things he could do.  He’d hacked that noble’s comm this morning; he may as well see if it was worth it.

Three messages – all from a Delta named Onslaught.

_Blast Off, where are you?  You should have been back hours ago.  This isn’t like you.  Call back immediately;_

_I’ve checked police reports for lower Kaon.  Hospital admissions.  Neither you nor your friend have shown up.  I know you’re better than to get into trouble, but there’d better be a damn good reason why you’re late;_

_Blast Off: my office.  Twenty-two of fifteen.  Do not be late.  I am cross enough with you as is._

So Blast Off was working for a mech named Onslaught – now where had he heard that name before?  The mystery didn’t last long.  A quick dig through Blast Off’s contact information revealed that he worked in a District Two office by the name of  _Veteran Resettlement and Investment Opportunities (VRIO)._   He knew of it; a former military officer creating opportunities to get his fellow War Frames out of the Underground.  A noble cause, albeit one that wouldn’t benefit Vortex in any way.  He couldn’t help but wonder though, why was an Alpha Caste Shuttle deigning to work for a war frame?

He kept digging, finding an itinerary created at thirty-six of seventeen this afternoon.

_42/3/1/26o12: District Six – Meridian Tower.  Meeting with Silveria.  Arrange gladiator match._

_42/3/1/26o16: District Four – Ratbat Plaza.  Meeting with Fleetfoot.  Arrange gladiator match._

_42/3/1/26o20: District Four – West Wight Park.  Meeting with Sidewinder.  Arrange gladiator match._

_42/3/2/26o7:  District Twelve – Brawl’s Apartment (Miner’s Row, Hovel Two, Room 405).  Discuss upcoming matches and expectations._

Well, wasn’t that interesting?  It seemed that Blast Off was dipping his thrusters into the realm of gladiator matches.  No meeting with Blackjack though to discuss licensing fees.  Clearly he was a newbie when it came to Underworld dealings.  It would have been charming, were it not suicidal.

What was an idiot noble like that doing business down here for anyway?  VRIO must have been in a pretty bad spot.  What a shame.

He spent a few minutes more digging through Blast Off’s saved files, but it was becoming harder to focus with each passing second, as the Syk really began to kick in.  His vision was swimming, transforming dirty walls to pristine crystal, his shabby sofa into a heated throne, the black smog outside his window into a field of stars.  Maybe this was what it was like to be Blast Off – noble of birth.  He probably got to sit in a heated throne in a translucent office every day, and fly home through a starry eternity every night.  For a long moment, Vortex pretended he was a Shuttle, wealthy, large, powerful, able to go where he wanted, do what he wanted, with whom he wanted, whenever he wanted.  What a nice existence that must have been.

He faded like that, a smile on his lips as unconsciousness claimed him.

~~~

Over the next several months, Vortex became unnaturally invested in Blast Off’s life.  Meeting with clients, manipulating pit fights, counting profits and inventing clever ways to obscure them within VRIO’s own finances should have all been very boring, but the mundanity of it was new and strange to a mech like Vortex.

Vortex assassinated debt dodgers, Blast Off researched tax laws.  Vortex slept his way through disgruntled miners, organ thieves, and run-of-the-mill sadists, Blast Off hired a secretary.  Vortex transported illegal circuit boosters in his cockpit, Blast Off hosted a luncheon for other nobles.  The Shuttle’s world of litigation, paperwork, and comfort was fascinating in just how dull it was; Vortex couldn’t look away.  And the more he watched Blast Off, the more interested he became.

He began to gravitate towards the coliseum on days he knew Brawl was set to fight, and netted a shanix or two betting on the mech Blast Off and his counterpart had preemptively elected to win.  Sometimes it was Brawl, sometimes it was his opponent.  The practice was alarmingly common, and incredibly dangerous.  Blackjack didn’t take kindly to fixed matches in his coliseum.  Vortex had assassinated his share of nobles in the past for that exact behavior.  Hopefully, Blast Off was smart enough to keep his name from winding up on a hit list.

Vortex didn’t have incredibly high hopes.

What had started in the coliseum had since expanded.  Before he knew it, friendly lunches with other sponsors to discuss match ups, had expanded to smuggling, manufacturing, and even the selling of illicit goods.  Now, it wasn’t only Blackjack’s pedes he was stepping on, but Modulator’s as well.  It was only a matter of time until he was found out.

But in the meantime, VRIO’s profits soared.  More mechs than ever were leaving the Underground to live on the surface.  Even Brawl had moved from the veterans’ hovel on Miner’s Row, to a quiet neighborhood in District Four.  Vortex was almost jealous.

_What would it take for a mech like me to get up there?_

But for every surface neighborhood that opened its doors to warframes, there was a council mandate to strike back.  It wasn’t just the Trifecta of the Underground that Blast Off was pissing off, but the Senate above him as well.  He didn’t know it, but he was well on his way to being the most wanted mech in Kaon.

That was why it came as no surprise when Catalyst called Vortex in one day, offering him three thousand shanix to assassinate a certain foolish noble.   _Three thousand!_ The hit must have come from Ratbat himself.  And it wasn’t just Catalyst to make the call.

“That mech owes thirty thousand in back taxes,” said Modulator.  “I’ll give you thirteen hundred to collect.”

And from Blackjack:

“Mech never paid for his gambling license.  That’s a hundred shanix per match – one match a week, fifty-eight weeks: That’s five thousand, eight hundred shanix.  And don’t think I haven’t noticed his impeccable luck.  You drain him for every shanix he’s worth, and the fifty-eight hundred is yours, tax free.

Vortex was set to become a very rich mech by the end of this. 

Too bad for the Trifecta, he didn’t care about money.

~~~

Arranging the rendezvous was easy enough.  All Vortex had to do was change a 26o17 meeting in District Seven’s Re-Bar, to District Thirteen’s Methane Park.  It used to go by a different name, before the factories came in.  Vortex understood that it even used to be a nice place.  But that was before his time.  Now, it was the sort of place where Empties came to overdose on Syk and die.  It was a good location to have a little fun whenever he grew bored with the industrial mechs, but most mechs didn’t share in his proclivities.  Anyone with any dignity avoided this place like the rust-infested hole in the ground it was. 

That was why Vortex liked to conduct his more sensitive business out here.  Whatever witnesses existed were rarely lucid enough to spill the beans.

Blast Off arrived right on time, just as he always did, taking in the sludge caked onto the rickety walkways, to the point where the ground couldn’t be seen beneath the centuries of grime – the misshapen, red-rimmed holes bitten into every visible surface, that promised to spread to any mech that came too close – and of course, the senseless, unmoving mechs, groaning softly on the floor with dim, empty optics, not caring about the filth in which they sat, or the disease that caused their own plating to peel off in chunks.  Purple optics narrowed in disgust; Vortex was willing to bet that his nose had wrinkled behind his mask.  The smells of the Underground had long since stopped bothering Vortex, but a mech like Blast Off would surely find them nausea-inducing.

He raised a hand to the side of his helm, activating his calm.  “Highwire, this is Blast Off.  I’ve arrived at the address you sent me.  I’m not certain this is the correct place.  It’s a bit sketchier than I prefer.”  The message didn’t go through; Vortex had seen to that.  But it was about time for him to make his entrance.

“Hey there, Blasters!  Nice to see you again,” he chimed, bouncing down from a nearby balcony.  It was as close to flying as he was gonna get down here.

“You!” Blast Off whirled around, his weapon drawn and pointed directly at Vortex’s chest.  Not the first time he’d been in such a situation, though a bit surprising after their sloppy alleyway encounter.  He somehow didn’t see the guy missing  _this_  shot.

Vortex didn’t bother drawing his own blaster; this wasn’t a situation he wanted to escalate.  “Me!” he agreed.

All it took was two second’s thought for Blast Off to put the pieces together.  “You hacked my comm – that night in the alley.  I knew I didn’t imagine it.”

“Ooh, you’re more clever than I gave you credit for,” he chuckled in response.  “I’d figured it would take you a bit longer to realize that Highwire wasn’t coming, y’know, just based on what I know about you.”

“You know nothing about me,” Blast Off growled back, his tone dangerously level.  It was actually . . . really cute.  Vortex wouldn’t mind the no-doubt sharpened teeth behind that battlemask sinking into his throat, letting his life’s energon flow into that warm, wonderful mouth.  Speaking of that mouth, he bet it tasted of high grade and hoity toity ores.  Vortex would have killed for a sample.

But not now.

“I know that you’re in trouble,” he replied, nodding sagely, as though a lethal weapon was not fixed on his spark chamber.  The calm reaction caught Blast Off off guard, even if the words didn’t.

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

“That’s a damn shame.”  Vortex nodded again, resisting the urge to fold his arms.  Non-visible hands would only further Blast Off’s anxiety.  “I’ve got three different mechs willing to pay me a combined ten thousand one hundred shanix to take you out.  Clearly, you’ve made some very powerful enemies in your time down here.”

Blast Off faltered, lowering his gun for a full half-second.  So close.  “I – you can’t be serious.  I’ve been careful to not cross anyone.  And the murder of an Alpha Caste is a capital offense.  Why would anyone want me dead?”

“Well, I mean – sure, you’ve been careful,” Vortex agreed.  “But facts is facts, and you  _are_  an Alpha Caste.  And all your closest peers have either spent their lives on the battlefield, or in the towers.  It only makes sense that you’d be blind to the way things work down here.”

“Enlighten me.”  There.   _Now_  we were getting somewhere.

“Well,” Vortex made sure to draw out the word for a good two seconds, playing at coy.  Coy was unthreatening.  Coy was what would convince Blast Off to put the blaster down and deal with him like a proper business partner.  And the perturbed flicker in his field was an added bonus.  “Down here, we got this system in place; they call it the Trifecta – three mechs what have the whole Kaon Underground in their greasy servos.

“Catalyst is the one what deals in assassination, bounties, and so on.  Modulator heads the merchants guild, and Blackjack’s got gambling in his corner.  You wanna do business down here, you gotta pay the right mech.  Your foray into smuggling’s got you a hefty fee in back taxes, and you ain’t paid for no gambling license, which means you gotta pay the fine for every match you’ve sponsored without it.  Also, y’know, Jackie’s onto your little rigged matches thing.  I’d factor in some lost bets right soon if you’re wanting to not get axed – I know VRIO can take the blow.

Blast Off narrowed his optics.  “I thought  _you_  were going to ‘axe’ me.”

“What, me?” Vortex laughed.  “How am I supposed to off a savvy mech like you?  I make one move you don’t like, and it’s all over, so long as you got that blaster pointed at me.  I ain’t exactly a genius, but even  _I’m_  not that stupid.”

“Right,” came Blast Off’s skeptical reply.  “Well then, if you’re not here to collect the ten thousand shanix bounty that’s apparently been placed on my head, then why  _are_  you here?”

Vortex shrugged.  “Well, I mean, you seemed like a nice guy.  Saved my life that one time.”

“Seems to me that you did a perfectly adequate job of saving yourself.”

Pity.  He didn’t remember.  It stung a bit more than Vortex would have liked to admit, though he didn’t let it show.  “Well, you were  _prepared_  to anyway, and that’s all that matters, ain’t it?  You’re good people, Blasters.”

“Why are you calling me that?”

Vortex ignored the question.  “Usually, I don’t give a scrap about good people, but you’re an Alpha, which means you got power, and  _that’s_  something you don’t see a lot of – good people in power.”

“What is your point?”

“My  _point_ , is that I’ve been watching your little scheme play out for months now, and I want in.”

“I’m sorry,” Blast Off said, snorting. “You want _what_  now?”

“ _In_ , Blasters.  Ten thousand shanix is a lot.  Were I any other mech, it woulda meant your death – well, first your prolonged torture, as I squeezed out every last credit you owe my clients.   _Then,_ we’d talk about death.  But I don’t care about that nonsense.  I care about fun.  And what’s more fun than rewriting all society’s rules, eh?”

“What are you talking about?”  The gun was drooping.  Yes!  Good Blast Off!  Keep those interest levels high!

“You and Onslaught – fragging over the Senate.  Shifting the balance of power your way.  Y’ain’t doin’ a half bad job of it.  Pretty sure Senator Ratbat put that last hit on your head.  _That_  should tell ya just how much a threat you are.  I mean, if you had someone underground, someone intimately familiar with all the ins and outs of conductin’ business with these lowlives, there’d be nothing left to stand in your way.”  He made sure to keep his EM field flared, so that every trace of glee and anticipation was conveyed.

“And what do  _you_  want out of this hypothetical arrangement?”

Vortex shifted his rotors, allowing them to splay outwards, and relishing in the way those purple optics fixated on them.  It was always the rotors.  “Blasters, I’m an Untouchable.  I’ve spent my whole life trapped behind bars, surrounded by walls, buried underground.  And unlike all those mechs you’ve been helping, I ain’t got the prospects for a better future.  You’re a flight frame too; can you imagine what that’s like?  Never having the chance to fly?  Never even having the hope that someday you might?”

“You want to fly?  That’s it?”  The skeptical tone didn’t leave Blast Off’s voice, but a twang of sympathy danced in his field.  He really  _was_  a good mech.  Vortex had this in the bag.

“’That’s it,’ he says, like that’s not a huge deal?  Come on, Blasters!  Let me hold your hand as you navigate the big, bad Underground, and we all win.  You don’t die.  I get to see the light of day, feel the wind beneath my . . . well, not wings, but you get the idea, yeah?”

Blast Off lowered his gun, his optics following it downward, distant, yet thoughtful.  He was weighing his options, debating the truth in Vortex’s words, wondering how his  _Onslaught_ would react in the same situation.

“Well, Blasters?  What do you say?”

At last, Blast Off turned his optics back on Vortex.  Unfortunately, his blaster followed.  “I’d say, thank you for the information, but I’m afraid I cannot trust your intentions.  Apologies.”

The blast was hot, sharp, biting straight through the malnourished plating of Vortex’s chest.  He collapsed to the ground, unthinking, unfeeling.  It was  _way_ better than Syk!

~~~

Vortex woke up in a world of pain, and not the good kind.  Agony was the sort of thing that felt amazing at the moment of infliction, but the lingering ache and discomfort, minus the joy of the initial stimulus was Vortex’s least favorite aspect of his more destructive hobbies.  He forced himself upright, clutching his hands over his melted chest. 

Frag, that was going to be an expensive fix.  He supposed he was lucky that the idiot missed his spark.  Even sober, it seemed that Blast Off was a lousy shot.  That, or his weird conscience had convinced him to let Vortex live.

Hah!  No.  That was laughable.  Blast Off was just an idiot.

He crawled back to his feet, wincing as the jagged remains of his chest plate dug their way into cauterized fuel lines, tearing a leak into the weakened tubing.  Just great.  That was a fifty shanix repair right there, no wonderful bounty awaiting him, and a tarnished reputation to boot.  This was not his day.

He’d survive.  He always did.  And hopefully Blast Off would too.  Few things said ‘I reject you’ quite like blasterfire to the chest, but Vortex wasn’t easily dismayed.  He’d set his spark on joining Onslaught’s little operation.  Blast Off’s denial only amplified his desire.  Already, his mind was working on a series of schemes to get what he wanted.  Every monster knew that the thrill was in the hunt, after all; this was going to be the most fun he’d had in a long time.

It didn’t matter that Blast Off had shot him.  It didn’t matter that Blast Off had called him untrustworthy.  It didn’t even matter that he seemed to have lost his back door into that comm (though that part disappointed him more than the rest).  He wasn’t done with that foolish,  _beautiful_  noble yet.

No.  He was just getting started.

 


	4. Love in the Underground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks like Brawl's about to get a night he'll never forget; and he doesn't even have to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And up goes the rating. Also, heed those new tags. We're gonna get a bit dub-con up in here.

Living in District Four wasn’t exactly what Brawl had imagined it would be.  Sure, he had his nice condo; Blast Off was good as his word, and had purchased it for him after just under a year of fighting in the coliseum.  The place was nice, roomy enough that he could stretch out, run around, even bounce up and down without hitting his barrel on the ceiling.  The walls were clean and white, the windows were huge, and gave him a nice view of the neon lights of the residential skyscrapers that surrounded him.  He even had a veranda that he could step out onto if he wanted to see the sky.  

That was the best part of living up here – the sky above; feeling the sun warm his plating.  It was something that simply didn’t exist in the Underground, where looking up only revealed the blackness of the overworld, where day cycles and night cycles blended together, distinguished only by the ticking of a chronometer, and the hours kept by the surprising number of businesses that strived to be legit.  There was no natural light in such a place, nor heat.  Any warmth gleaned came from the factories, as they blasted hot air throughout the space, to go along with the toxic smog.  And that was to say nothing of the cramped living; Brawl couldn’t even stand at his full height in his old apartment without his barrel scraping painfully against his shabby ceiling, peeling paint flakes to rain down on his head in a sad flurry.  His new house was definitely an improvement.

Or it should have been.  It was everything he’d hoped to come back to, everything he’d dreamed of, and yet, it was its own brand of misery as well.  A mech like him wasn’t welcome in a place like this; the neighbors made that well and truly clear.  He was the only war frame in his building, on his street, even.  Sleek Speedsters, and flashy Heavies, and scrawny Intellectuals – the mechs of the Beta and Gamma castes – glared at him as he passed, as he waved a greeting, said ‘good day.’  They never responded, and eventually, Brawl stopped looking for their approval.

It wasn’t just his neighborhood either.  He may have lived on the surface, but he still worked in the Underground, in the coliseum.  No one on the surface would have hired a Tank with a State Intelligence rating of two, and zero transferable skills.  As far as the world was concerned, Brawl was good for one thing, and that thing was fighting, and that meant going back and forth between the surface and the Underground twice a day, whether to fight in the pits himself, or to study his opponents, or even to hang out with the sort of mech that wouldn’t sneer when he tried to make conversation.  But traveling between the two meant passing checkpoints, meant suspicious guards,  always scouring his subspace for illicit goods, always poking him, prodding him, looking for secret compartments he could be smuggling his Underground wares in, or otherwise interrogating him.  One time, they’d even checked his Comm; thankfully for him, he only really used it to talk with Blast Off, who was officially registered as his boss.  

It was all very demeaning, degrading, and a massive pain in the aft, but every day, he put up with it, assuring himself that the cruel treatment was worth it, for the sake of feeling the sun on his back.  

It _was_ worth it.

~~~

“Blast Off!  It’s about damn time!  I was wondering when you was gonna show up again.”

Blast Off stood in his doorway, a cube of mid grade under one arm, his face unreadable behind his battlemask.  They had met in Brawl’s apartment every week since this little affair had begun.  Blast Off would bring his earned shanix, some complimentary energon (some kind of Alpha caste tradition that Brawl didn’t understand, but appreciated nonetheless), and information regarding his upcoming fight.  Something had gone wrong this time, however.  Blast Off had been gone for three weeks, and while Brawl didn’t have to worry about making rent anymore, he had been starting to wonder if Blast Off had somehow forgotten about him.  It wouldn’t be a surprise.  As much as he admired Blast Off and Onslaught, even _he_ could tell that the feeling wasn’t mutual.

“Apologies.  We’ve run into a mite of trouble.  I needed to take care of it before we proceeded with our plans.”

“Trouble?”

“Are you going to invite me in, or not?” Blast Off sighed, narrowing his optics behind his visor as he remained standing in Brawl's doorway.  Oh right.  Alphas and their stupid customs.  Any _normal_ mech would’ve come in the moment the door was opened.  What a weirdo.

“Yeah, yeah.  Come in already,” Brawl said, beckoning Blast Off in.  “You don’t need permission buddy.  You’re the one what bought the place and everything.”

“We’re on the surface now, Brawl,” Blast Off said, stepping across the threshold and sliding the door shut behind him.  “And we will abide the manners of such.  Now, you asked me what kind of trouble we’re in.  I’ll tell you.”  He set the energon down on the table, the one piece of furniture Brawl had managed to afford thus far, and leaned against the wall, in lieu of any chairs to sit upon.

“I had a run in with a Rotary mech the other day – a hitman, apparently, hired by multiple people to take me out.  I don’t suppose you know anything about him?  Grey and teal fellow?  Was dancing his way around Electric Oasis that night we went with Aphelion?”

Brawl wracked his processor, thinking of every Rotary he’d ever met.  It wasn’t exactly a common frametype, but he also wasn’t the type to pay much attention to strangers on the street.  “Can’t say I know the guy.  He didn’t kill you though.”  Brawl was quite proud of his observation.

“Indeed,” Blast Off agreed, less than impressed.  “I don’t know what game he thinks he’s playing – he claimed to want in on our scheme, but I somehow doubt the honesty of a serial murderer.  I took care of him anyway, but he was quite informative beforehand.  Told me about the Trifecta – the three mechs who apparently rule the Underground.”

Again, Brawl considered this.  “Oh, yeah.  Those guys.  I thought you knew about them.”

“I did not,” Blast Off said, tone neutral.  “But it doesn’t matter at this point.  Onslaught and I have paid them off.  We’re up to date on our licensing.  For the moment, our only enemies are those on the surface once more.  That is the reason for the delay.”

“Okay.”  Brawl couldn’t deny that he was growing bored.  What did any of this have to do with _him_?  Blast Off may as well have just said the trouble was taken care of and been done with it.  He knew how much Brawl hated technical jargon.

“Despite this, I would like to play things safe for awhile.  Onslaught is displeased with the financial setback, especially so close to the opening of our second branch in District Three, but it is better to play safe than sorry; he and I both agree.  For that reason, I would like you to lose your next three fights – I will be betting for you.”

“What?” Brawl cocked his head.  “You want me to lose, even though you’re betting on me?  Won’t that lose you money?”

“That is the point,” Blast Off sighed.  “I want to make it look like we _aren’t_ fixing matches.”

“Even though we are.”

“Yes.”  Blast Off’s tone was strained, impatient.  Rude, is what it was.  Brawl couldn’t help that he was slower than everybody else.  Patience was a virtue.  “Apparently that is grounds for getting murdered around here, and I’d rather not find myself trapped in Methane Park with a more competent hitman next time.”

“Oh man, he got you to go to Methane Park?” Brawl laughed.  “Wow, you really are a lost cause!   _Everyone_ knows you don’t go down there.  That’s where the empties live!”

“Yes.  I understand that now.”

“And they call _me_ stupid!”  It was nice to have the upper hand on a snob like Blast Off for a change.  From the sour look on his face, Blast Off didn’t take kindly to the insult.

“Look,” he snapped.  “Lose your next three matches, just to get Blackjack off my back.  From there, you’re on your own.”

Brawl sputtered.  What did that mean?  Was Blast Off abandoning him?  It wasn’t because of that joke was it?!  This wasn’t right!  This wasn’t the plan!  He was supposed to end up back with Onslaught again, not ditched in a neighborhood where everyone hated him, and looked at him like he was going to break into their homes and steal their valuables!  Blast Off couldn’t do this to him!  “I’m on my own?!  You’re ditching me?!  You frag bucket!  You said we were partners!”

Blast Off buried his face in a palm, shaking his head in that stupid, stuck up Shuttle way he liked to do.  “I’m not abandoning you.  When I say you’re on your own, I mean that whether you win or lose is up to you.  I have confidence in your ability to gain us more money than we lose.”

“Wait . . . so you mean no more fake losing?”

“Right,” Blast Off snorted, haughty as ever.  Fuck that guy.

“Okay,” Brawl agreed, plopping down on the floor and at last reaching for the cube of energon.  “I’m down!  I fucking _hate_ fake losing.  Do you know how hard that is?”

“I’ve heard.  Several times.  Every time I ask you to do so, in fact.”

Brawl narrowed his optics behind his own visor, chugging down the cube in one go.  It was nice; the sort of energon he couldn’t afford, despite his fancy District Four digs.  His fuel lines felt all warm and floaty, and it wasn’t even engex!  What wonders proper fuel could do.  “Well,” he said, more friendly than he’d intended, “it _does_.”

“I’m sure.”  Blast Off did not join him on the floor.  That sort of thing was beneath him.  “But regardless, you’ve got three more fake losses.  Then you can do whatever you want.”

‘Whatever you want.’  It sounded nice in Brawl’s head.  Of course, Blast Off didn’t actually mean it.  If Brawl could have done whatever he wanted, he wouldn’t be fighting in the pits at all.  He’d be working on the surface with a proper salary and none of this abuse at border patrol every time he wanted an affordable cube of lowgrade.  He couldn’t even bring Underground energon back home with him.  It left him with a rather empty storage room.  What was the point of having energon storage if he couldn’t fill it?

“So, speaking of whatever I want,” he ventured, “when am I gonna get to work for Onslaught in a proper job?  I mean, it would be easier, and like, more legal, and I kinda miss him, y’know?  He was a colossal aft, but in like, a charming way?”

He could feel his spark sink even before Blast Off finished shaking his head.  “You’re a gladiator, and more specifically, _my_ gladiator.  So long as you remain connected solely to me, there is nothing suspicious.  I’m a noble; I have certain entitlements.  But the moment anyone, particularly our beloved senator, makes the connection between my Underground business and Onslaught’s legitimate surface ventures, is the moment we all go under horribly.  We know he already suspects – the hitman was nice enough to confirm that for me.  If you start working for Onslaught, it will only be more ammunition to use against him.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Brawl groaned, shaking his head, as though the movement could somehow draw meaning from the meaningless drivel Blast Off spat.  “I could be like, a bodyguard or something.  Don’t see what me being a bodyguard has to do with Ratbat finding out that Onslaught’s got Underground income.”

“And that is why you’re not a bodyguard.”

Brawl glared, chucking the empty cube at Blast Off, who caught it with ease.  “Don’t waste these.  Valvoluxian crystal is expensive.”

“I don’t care!” Brawl growled, folding his arms under his chest, as best he could manage anyway.  Smaller mechs always looked so grumpy when they made this motion.  With a chest as big as Brawl’s, it was much harder to pull off.  That didn’t stop him from trying, however.

“You look ridiculous.”

“Come _on_ , Blast Off!  I want a normal life too!  When do I get my reward?”

“I bought you this house, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.  But I wasn’t expecting the rest of living up here to be so slag-rusted fragging _hard_.”

“Your insults lack bite,” Blast Off sighed, pushing himself from the wall, and sliding towards the door.  Brawl got up to follow.  Like the Pit was Blast Off slipping out without a proper answer!  Fortunately, he was in a talkative mood, it seemed.  

“I won’t blame you for your own ignorance, although it would be quite easy to do so.  My comment was simply meant as a reminder that I keep my promises.  You will get your reward, will find your place amongst Onslaught’s ranks once more, when the time comes that our position is solidified enough that Ratbat is no longer able to tear us down.  If you know Onslaught at all, you know that he likes to play the long game.  Patience is required, Brawl.  We’ll come out on top – all three of us.”

As annoying as the Shuttle was, he could talk a good game when he wanted to.  And he was right in this case.  Onslaught knew what he was doing.  If he wanted Brawl to wait, then Brawl would wait.  He would keep fighting in the Pits, and deal with his daily indignities with all the patience he wished Blast Off had during their conversations.  He was already living on the surface, just as promised.  And his salary _was_ slowly climbing, just as promised.  There was no reason to assume Blast Off was lying about this, when he had been nothing but honest up to this point.

“O-okay,” he agreed.  “I lose my next three fights, then get to do what I want in the ring.”

“Yes.  Preferably win.”

“Well, duh,” Brawl barked, cornering Blast Off in the doorway.  “So, who am I fighting this time?”

Blast Off pulled a data pad from his subspace; the fragger.  He knew Brawl hated reading.  

“What, you can’t just tell me?”

“Just take the thing,” Blast Off growled, thrusting the pad into Brawl’s open hands.  He gave it a peek.  Thankfully, three fourths of the front page was an image of his opponent – a Miner named Drillbit.  Stupid name.  His tech specs were helpfully included.  He was stronger than Brawl; faster and smarter too.  It wouldn’t be too hard to fake a loss against him, even if he did look uglier than those rust-bitten empties that liked to troll Methane Park.

“Thanks,” he said, voice softer than his default boom; still louder than anything Blast Off had said yet.  Soft-spoken twit.

“Don’t mess up.”  With that said, Blast Off slid the door open, and slipped out into the hall beyond, stalking off with all the snootiness Brawl had come to expect from him.  It should have been off-putting, and indeed, usually was, but every once in awhile, Blast Off would prove that his stuck-up facade was really just that – a facade.  He cared, in his own weird way.  And Brawl was loath to let him down.  

He looked back to the data pad, admiring how simple his sponsor had kept the report.  Yes.  Brawl definitely wanted to work with him and Onslaught again, no question about it.  He’d be patient, do as he was told, and come out on top.

~~~

Losing on purpose was always the hardest part of his job; he was fairly certain that, no matter how much he ranted and complained, how much detail he spelled it out in, Blast Off would never quite understand his qualms.  Brawl wasn’t a smart mech.  He knew this.  He accepted it even.  But even he knew that he had to make the loss look like a legitimate loss.  That meant throwing punches – hard enough to hurt, but not enough so to cripple.  It meant dodging blows – but not all of them; putting on his best show of _trying_ to legitimately win the match, only to make some grave mistake at the last minute.

It royally sucked, least of all for how much losing hurt.  He didn’t like getting hit, didn’t like exposing his few vulnerabilities – the lighter armor of his hidden stomach, the base of his turret, his inability to properly deal with enemies that got behind him.  And even more than that, he loathed the reactions of other mechs after the fight.   

His opponent usually wasn’t the problem.   _Usually._   Both mechs entered the coliseum knowing which would come out on top; their sponsors always worked it out beforehand.  It was the crowds that were the problem.  Losing gladiators, especially in the Silver League were looked down upon by the other mechs of the Underground.  Clearly they weren’t strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to live.  Bold criminals liked to target them, and hungry pleasurebots avoided them like the plague.  Also, they usually got jeered at by the other gladiators at the pub.  It all royally sucked.

The first loss hadn’t been so bad.  The second, marginally less so.  By the third loss in a row, Brawl’s reputation was in tatters.  If it hadn’t been for the knowledge that he was playing his small part in Onslaught’s grand scheme, he would have given up by this point, and tried his hand at getting a job in a shop.  Anything had to be better than the shame he faced here.

Tonight was _The Dancing Minibot_.  Gladiators always gathered at the pubs for a round of post-match celebratory drinks, with the winner of the day picking their favorite.  Quake always had a bad taste in drinks, and a worse taste in atmosphere, but the undersized Miner had won their match not-so fair and square, and thus, no one complained when they found themselves sitting in the boring little tavern.  The setup was stupid, the lighting too dim to be classy but too bright to be fun, and the music was the sort of stuff popular in the pre-golden age middle tier cantinas – stiff and dull and _way too loud_ on this sound system.  He supposed it didn’t matter anyway.  It wasn’t like there was a floor to dance on.

Quake sat at a round table in the center of the room, boasting about his every strike from the earlier match in exaggerated detail to the crowd of pleasurebots surrounding him, each feeding him another drink, hoping that he would fork over his new-found winnings to spend money on  one of them for the night.  Brawl wasn’t jealous.  None of them were that attractive anyway – all sleek Speedsters and tiny Two-Wheelers – their little hands able to squeeze between the gaps in a large mech’s armor, delve straight down to the protoform, eliciting frame-deep pleasure from within that your average Heavy couldn’t pull off.  Who would want _that_?  Certainly not Brawl!

He turned his back on the hideous display, sitting at the bar alone, rather than bother sharing a table or booth with the others.  Quake didn’t deserve the attention.  He was that rare exception – the wretched braggart who liked to make the losing gladiator's life a living hell, despite knowing that his own win had been bought beforehand.  And he was a _terrible_ fighter to boot!  Losing to him had been quite the chore; Brawl wasn’t entirely sure he’d done a convincing job of it.  Those stupid little hooks the mech had transformed his hands into weren’t strong enough to pierce his armor, and he wasn’t fast enough to get around to Brawl’s backside.  Brawl had wound up faking a misstep, tripping over his own feet, and toppling to the ground, leaving himself open to defeat.  It was his most embarrassing lost to date, frag it all.

And yet, here they were – Quake, the loser, swimming in potential lovers that should have rightfully been _Brawl’s_.  But if Brawl wanted a pleasurebot for the night, he’d have to pay twice as much.  Nobody wanted to share a berth with a mech that couldn't win battles.

_Joke’s on_ _them_!  He thought, throwing back his Nightmare Fuel, cringing at the bitter aftertaste.  Frag the drinks in this bar.

“Hey Brawlie!” Drillbit called out from Quake's table, where he was trying to get in good with the swarm of groupies.  “Losing streak like that; you sure you got the right career here?”

“Frag off,” Brawl bit back.  Drillbit had no room to talk.  He’d proven a miserable fighter, despite his superior specifications.  It didn’t matter how big or strong a miner was; he was no match for a soldier’s experience.

“Bad luck,” Pinpoint insisted, from the outer edge of Quake's crowd.  Brawl liked Pinpoint.  He was smart, if not a bit peculiar.  Bot had probably fried his processor from all the circuit boosters he liked to take, forever addling his poor thoughts; mech had a problem.  It was a damn shame too.  A Laser Pointer had no business being in the Underground, and yet here he was, all due to some damn addiction.

To fuel his habit, the bot had joined the ranks of pleasurebots, just as most mechs of his size class tended to do.  He wasn't very attractive, or popular, but he charged a decent price for head, so Brawl couldn't complain.  He contemplated going home with that mech tonight.

_Meh.  Maybe if I get desperate._

“You’ll get it next time,” Pinpoint continued, nodding absently to himself.

“Damn right I will,” Brawl snapped, more harshly than intended.

“With moves like that, I’m sure you will!” Quake shouted from across the floor, laughing drunkenly.  “Babe, go give him this drink, on me.  Poor loser needs it after a match like today’s.”  He urged a pretty purple Two-Wheeler Brawl’s way, with an equally purple drink in hand.

“I ain’t no charity case!” Brawl shot back.  “I’ll buy my own drinks!”

“With what money?” Quake laughed.  “We all know you got a nice house up on the surface, but you ain’t got the money to live in it.  Guess the generosity of your sponsor doesn’t go that far.”

“Frag off.  At least I get to go home at the end of the day to clear skies and open air!”   _That’s right, Brawl.  Focus on the positive._ He had a better lot than all of these loser combined.  They were destined to die in the ring, or of some stupid, preventable disease, or otherwise starve to death in this wretched excuse for an existence.  Brawl had a future; his misery was only temporary.  Everything would be fine.

“Oooh, look at the braggart,” Quake sneered.  “At least _I’m_ not going home alone tonight.  Can’t say the same for you.  When’s the last time you got some, eh?  You can bet your Shuttle’s not putting out.”

Brawl squeezed his empty cube in his hand, his poor temper growing worse by the second.  Frag Quake, and Drillbit, and this stupid shitty bar with its watered down Nightmare Fuel and its lousy atmosphere and its ugly, snobby pleasurebots.  But he said nothing, contrary to his every urge.  It was pointless to argue with these futureless losers.  Instead, he turned back to the bartender and ordered a Helexian Topper.  Not his usual go to, but anything was better than his previous drink.

“Don’t let ‘em get to you,” Pinpoint said, slipping into the seat at his side, resting a scrawny hand on Brawl's arm.  “You know you can always go home with _me_.”

Brawl weighed his options, wondering if he'd reached 'desperate' just yet.  On the one hand, it really _had_ been a long time since he’d seen any action, and Pinpoint was cheap, and had clearly been shunned by Quake and Drillbit already.  On the other hand, the protoform around Pinpoint’s cheeks was flaking away – a sign of a rust infection that he'd probably caught from one of his other clients.  It was damn gross, is what it was.  

“Sorry pal.  You’re off the market ‘til you get _that_ sorted out,” he gestured at his own mouth.  Pinpoint narrowed his optics and slunk off.  Only sympathetic so long as he thought he was gonna make a buck; typical pleasurebot.  Brawl hated the lot of them.  

But what choice did a mech in his position have?  The Underground wasn’t the sort of place that forged long-lasting, healthy, intimate relationships.  Until he properly earned his place in the sun, Brawl was stuck with the pleasurebots, none of which wanted him at the moment.  What was a mech to do but drink himself into a stupor and hope the border patrol didn’t give him too much trouble on the way home?

“Ouch.  Never seen a brush off so brutally honest before.”

Brawl raised his head, sparing a glance for the newcomer.  He’d slipped into the seat at Brawl’s right, so quiet as to be unnoticed; that was quite a feat for any mech, but especially for one with _that_ much kibble.  He had rotors, for Primus’ sake!  How the frag had he snuck in without those things waggling around on their hub?  

Other than the unsettling sneakiness of the mech, however, Brawl rather liked what he saw.  He was a Rotary – attractive by default.  Who didn’t love parts that spun?  Add in the rareness of his frametype, the body that somehow managed to appear both powerful and wiry at the same damn time, the sharp panes of his helm, the mystery of his face, hidden behind a visor and mask – he was quite an attractive little stranger.  The grey paintjob was a bit odd, but the teal was a nice contrast, bringing vivid life into what otherwise could have been mistaken for a deathly pallor.  Come to think of it, hadn’t Blast Off said something about Rotaries?

Eh, he couldn’t remember.

“He’s got _rust_ ,” Brawl insisted, adamantly.  “Like frag I want rust.  I’d rather stick my spike in a socket than a mech with rust.”

“Fair enough,” the stranger said.  “Hey bartender!  Get me a Nightmare Fuel.”

The frag was the little bastard doing?  A drink like that would kill someone with a frametype so small.  Well, maybe not small, but he wasn't exactly a Tank, and Nightmare Fuel was a Tank's drink.

“Don’t get the Nightmare Fuel!” Brawl insisted.

“It’s cute that you care, but I’ll be fine.”

“No, I mean, don’t get it.  It tastes like solvent.  Stuff’s shit at this bar.  Electric Oasis has better.”

The mech behind the bar glared at him, slamming the sludgy green drink down in front of the Rotary, her treads shifting in anger.  “You don’t like the drinks, you can frag off,” she snapped.

“I’m payin’ for ‘em, ain’t I?” he retorted, to no reply.  Primus, he was getting testy.  This was the worst celebration every.  Mockery from all sides.  No one to go to for a little comfort.  Some creepy-aft copter trying to commit suicide by engex at his side.  He was half tempted to pack up and go home already.

Speaking of the suicidal copter, he’d already brought the drink to his lips, thin and scarred, Brawl noticed, now that there was no mask to protect them.  Brawl found them oddly enticing, but that was probably just his own drunken state talking.  Not that it mattered _what_ his lips looked like.  The idiot would be dead soon enough.

Much to his surprise, the Rotary did not drop dead on the spot.  “Yup,” he choked.  “ _Definitely_ been watered down with solvents.  Shoulda taken your advice.”  He laughed merrily, and frag, it was nice to hear a charming, happy sound like that directed his way, rather than the mockery he’d been subjected to all evening.  Speaking of . . .

“Ooh, watch out, buddy!  The loser might rub off on you!” Quake cackled drunkenly, an arm wrapped around the two Speedsters that hung off his either side.  One poured a cube of engex down his throat.  Gross.

“I dunno,” the Rotary said without looking back.  “Based on his win-loss record, Brawlie here’s won more battles than you and Drillbit over there combined.  And he actually _won_ his fights, instead of letting his opponent take _himself_ out.”

Quake sputtered, choking on his energon.  He flew to his feet, climbing on top of the table for maximum height, and scattering empty cubes to the ground around him.  The surrounding pleasurebots looked between one another, annoyed.  “You say that to my face, you rust-bitten fluid dumpster!”

“Primus, how do you put up with this guy?” the Rotary laughed again, ignoring the embarrassing show at his back.  

“Uh, I don’t know, to be honest.  I kind of hate him.”

“Hey, I’m talking to _you_!” Quake persisted, even as the others around him tried to calm him down.

“Drop it, Quake,” Drillbit pressed.  “The fight’s already over, and you won.  Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

“You don’t wanna pick a fight with a copter,” Pinpoint added, stroking at Quake’s legs, trying to force him back down, and maybe get a little attention for himself in the process.  “All copters are crazy.  They'll mess you up."

The Rotary had nothing to say to this, but Brawl alone was close enough to see those lips twisted into a smug grin.  “Hmm, seems to me I picked the wrong bar tonight.  Bad, bad atmosphere."  Then, without warning, he swiveled his stool to face Brawl full on, leaned forward and rested a hand suggestively on his thigh.  "Hey Brawlie, you wanna get outta here?"

“Sorry, what?” Brawl replied, dumbly.  Was this guy implying what Brawl thought he was implying? 

The mech sighed with the sort of impatience Brawl was accustomed to.  Still, the smile never left his lips.  “You, me, somewhere a little more private – or public if you like; I don’t care.  I’ll be your spike socket for the night, if that’s what you’re feeling.  Better than listening to these losers yammer away all evening, at least.”

Brawl shook his head, still unable to process what he was hearing.  “How much are you charging for this?”

“Hmm?”  That grin was positively devious now.  “No charge,” he shrugged.  “Well, I mean, _I’m_ charged up, and I’m not exactly strapped for cash.  And I can smell the charge in your frame too.  Why bother paying for a pleasurebot when you got a willing partner right here?”

“Did you miss the fact that I _lost_?” Brawl protested.  This was _way_ too good to be true.  No way a mech this hot just wanted a frag.  There had to be some sort of catch.  Maybe Pinpoint was right.  Maybe copters really were all crazy.  He’d seen his fair share on the battlefield, and the assessment wasn't too far from the mark.  There was a reason, after all, why most never came back.

The Rotary rose from his seat, leaning in close to Brawl’s audial; he could feel the hot air of those intake vents against his helm; he shuddered despite himself.  “I know you threw the match.  Stop pretending you’re so weak.  Now come on; let’s get outta here.”

That was all the persuasion Brawl needed.  “Okay, sure.  Let’s ditch these losers.”

“ _You’re_ the loser!” Quake insisted.  At some point he’d sprawled out across the table like a tantrum-throwing protoform.  The bartender was eyeing him with irritation; that was the look of a mech about to throw someone out on the street.  Brawl allowed himself a moment of smug satisfaction.  Quake’s night was going to be ruined, and Brawl was going home with _this_ exotic beauty.

Quake wasn’t the only one with something to say, however.  “You’re gonna get yourself killed!” Pinpoint snapped, more than a little jealous.  “Copters are crazy.  They lure you in, then kill you in a dark alley.  I’ve seen it happen!”

Hmm.  Come to think of it, yeah!  It was coming back to him.  Blast Off had mentioned a Rotary hitman who had cornered him in Methane Park.  Then again, Blast Off had also mentioned killing that Rotary, so there was no reason to think that situation had anything to do with this one.  Besides, he was drunk and horny and willing to take his chances.  What was a little copter like this going to do against a Tank like him?  At his side, the Rotary was giggling, as he took another gulp of his drink.

Why the frag not?

Brawl grabbed onto the rotor hub, hoisting his partner from the stool, and began maneuvering him towards the door.  It was impressive just how pliable that little mech was; practically limp in his arms.  He didn’t seem angry though, quite the opposite in fact.

“Later losers!” Brawl shouted behind him, without looking back.  The night was his now!

The Rotary was clearly drunk, even from a mere two sips of watered down Nightmare Fuel.  He leaned heavily on Brawl with every step, giggling and cheerful as they made their way down the street.

“I’m a big fan of yours, I’ll admit,” he laughed.  “Been so for a few months now!  I always did have a thing for Tanks!  Their plating’s so thick – you need a laser scalpel to cut it!”

“We are pretty damn hardy,” Brawl agreed, allowing his hand to drift lower down the Rotary’s back, beneath his rotor hub, towards his aft.

“And attractive!”

“Yeah right!” Brawl laughed.

“No, I’m serious,” the little charmer protested.  “You’ve got a great shape – powerful.  I love how big your chest is – something to latch onto.  It’s a great feeling!  And oh Primus, that turret!  I always did love parts that jut out like that.  Specially hollow ones.  Just makes me want to –”  The next thing Brawl knew, he had an arm full of Rotary, greedily grasping for his cannon barrel, running his tight little grip up and down that heavy length – as much as he could reach, anyway.  Brawl never would have imagined such a sensation could be pleasurable; the metal there was reinforced to handle the force of the ammunition it expelled, but somehow he found he rather enjoyed it.  Maybe it was the thought that he might accidentally hurt his partner that thrilled him so.  Regardless, he stumbled backwards in aroused surprise, landing heavily against a wall.

“We could go, right here, right now,” the Rotary whispered, hungrily.

And oh how Brawl wanted to.  But he couldn’t afford to make a fool of himself in public.  Onslaught had high standards, and he was gonna meet them.  Dammit.

“N-no,” he stuttered, using up all his willpower to do so.  “Gotta get home.  We’ll do it there.”

“Where’s home?” the mech murmured, his voice the exact right shade of husky to have Brawl’s spike trying to pressurize right then and there.

“District Four,” he explained.  “Twin bridges neighborhood.  The Tri-Axel Building.”

“Fancy digs for a War Frame,” the mech commented.

“My sponsor bought the place for me.”

“Generous sponsor.”

“Stingy sponsor, more like,” Brawl grumbled.  “Bought me the place, but I can’t afford food or furniture or any of that important stuff.”  He paused, a realization slowly dawning on him.  “I – er – I don’t actually have a berth.  Is that fine by you?”

“I’ll make do,” the little mech grinned.  “Believe me, I’ve had worse than that.”  He ground his hips against Brawl, despite the previous protests.  But Brawl couldn’t bring himself to mind.  “Tell me though, why put up with a sponsor that treats you like that?  Wouldn’t it be easier to just find a proper job in a shop somewhere?”

“Well yeah,” Brawl agreed, doing his damndest to untangle the mech from himself.  “But I want to live on the surface.”

“Even though you can’t afford it?”  Damn, but he was stubborn.  His grip was tight around Brawl’s barrel.  Eventually though, the Rotary relented, allowing himself to be lowered to the ground.  He stumbled forward, would have fallen had Brawl not latched onto his rotor hub at the last moment.  “Hmm, damn, that feels good.  Don’t let go, Brawlie.”

“Well, I mean, I’m gonna be able to afford it eventually,” he continued, doing just as the Rotary had ordered.  It felt a little awkward carrying a mech around like this, but the limp, purring body beneath his hand made it worth it.  “Not gonna stay a gladiator forever,” he laughed.  “I’m gonna work on the surface.  For an old war buddy of mine.”

It was strange.  Brawl had never spoken so long with another mech about himself before; usually no one was interested.  But this Rotary?  Brawl felt he could have told him anything.  It was refreshing to be met with such curiosity.  And quite the turn on.

“Sounds nice,” the mech agreed, his voice dreamy.  “I’d love to work on the surface.”

“Why not?”

The purring of that sweet little engine stopped.  Uh-oh.  The Rotary shimmied out of his grip, though Brawl wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed it.  One moment, there was a rotor hub in his hand, the next, nothing.  Little guy was slippery.  

“I don’t got no identity,” he sighed, wistfully.

“What?”  This guy was an Untouchable?  No way!  Untouchables were those creepy empties that congregated in District Thirteen – the nobodies with no future and no past.  This guy was far too lively to be in the same caste as that lot.  “No identity?  Not even a name?”

He laughed.  “Oh, I got a name.  I’ll even share it with ya for a shanix.”

“I thought you didn’t want money.”

Another laugh.  His giddiness was contagious; Brawl couldn’t help but laugh too.  

“I’m kidding Brawlie.  I know your name; only fair you know mine, I suppose.  Vortex,” he said, with a wave of his hand, like this was some kind of completely ordinary introduction.

“Vortex,” Brawl repeated.  Hadn’t he heard that somewhere before?  Yeah!  He was almost certain he had.  Somewhere in the Underground, to be sure, but he couldn’t quite recall where.

“You’re a lucky mech,” Vortex chirped.  “Not just _anyone_ gets to know my name.”

Brawl smiled.  He felt lucky.  He had this stranger at his mercy, and said stranger trusted him enough to offer up a name, a name Brawl was _sure_ he should have recognized.  Oh well.  “I’m glad you shared it with me.”

“You think this old war buddy of yours could get someone like _me_ a job up there?” he asked, stumbling coyly ahead.

Brawl followed, thinking as hard as his inebriated mind would allow.  “I – uh, I dunno.  He doesn’t actually have much power just yet.  He’s working on it; it’s why I’m still working down here.  But my sponsor’s an Alpha.  I bet he could pull some strings if he wanted badly enough.”

“I wonder what could make him want to.”

“I dunno,” Brawl shrugged.  “He can be a real hard aft sometimes.  And he doesn’t tell me much ‘cause he thinks I’m too dumb.”

“Sounds like a real winner,” Vortex said, absently.  His stride had slowed down, and he was glancing around, a bit more alert than he had been moments before.  Brawl didn’t see any reason to slow his own pace, however.

“He’s not so bad, once you get to know him.  Like, I don’t understand all that detail stuff anyway.  I know he got in trouble with the Trifecta recently, and had to disappear for a bit, but he says that he got that all squared away.”

Vortex froze, turning to look at Brawl in wide-eyed surprise.  “The Trifecta?  You don’t just bury trouble with _their_ lot.  That’s a pretty big deal!”

“You think?”  Brawl knew of the Trifecta of course, but he wasn’t exactly doing anything worthy of their attention, so he’d never bothered to learn too much about them.

“I _know_ ,” Vortex insisted.  “I’ve seen a lot of guys get axed by them.  Those guys are bad news!  And if your friend’s an Alpha, how’s he supposed to truly know how to deal with those guys?  There's a lot of intricacies to the Underground that an Alpha’s gonna have no way of knowing.  Pit, all these war mechs coming in don't even know the half of it!  Lots of 'em get killed by accidently pissing off the wrong guy.  Believe me, I know!"

“T-that’s true,” Brawl said, suddenly nervous.  Was Vortex right?  Was Blast Off in more trouble than he’d let on?

“Oh well,” Vortex shrugged, mood suddenly light.  “He’s got someone like _you_ to protect him.  I’m sure he’ll be fine.”  

Brawl didn’t feel fine.  He felt terrified.  Onslaught’s plans revolved around every detail falling exactly into place.  Did Blast Off really know what he was doing?  He was smart, sure, but Vortex was right; he _didn’t_ know the Underground.  Not really.

“Frag, we’re all screwed.”

“Oh now, none of that,” Vortex assured, throwing his arms around Brawl’s and leaning on him once again, like a love-struck greenmech.  “I’m sure you’ll find someone who can help your lot with this stuff.  You got plenty of resources.  And with all the connections your buddy has made, he’ll find someone that knows how the Underground functions in no time.”  He sounded confident, and somehow, that confidence spread to Brawl also.

“Yeah,” he agreed.  “Yeah.  If we get an Underworld expert, we’ll be good.  Someone who can help us stay on the right side of the Trifecta.  Vortex, you’re a genius!”

“Thanks, I like to think so!”

The conversation fell away as they pressed on, but the closer they got to the border, the more timid his new Rotary buddy became.  Vortex was falling behind.  Burying his face against Brawl’s side.  Clinging to his arm with all his might.

“Vortex, everything alright?”

“I – uh, you remember how I said I don’t got no identity?”

“Yeah?”

“You think they’ll let me through?”

Frag.  He was right.  Brawl could barely get through, and all of his papers were in order.  Vortex would never be able to cross to the surface if he didn’t have a proper comm.  Did he have one at all?  Was that something Untouchables had?”

“Maybe not,” Brawl sighed.  Frag.  There went his evening.  He’d really been looking forward to fragging that copter too.

“It’s okay,” Vortex said.  “I know a motel nearby, if you got a shanix to spare.”

Brawl didn’t, not really.  But his mind had already been made up.  Frag it all; he was gonna screw this copter by the end of the night, even if he _did_ have to spend a shanix to do so.  It was five times as much as he usually spent on a pleasurebot, but Vortex was so much more than a pleasurebot.  He was a _partner_.  Brawl really felt a connection with him, even though they’d only just met.

“Okay, let’s do it!”

~~~

Brawl paid for the room, ignoring the looming knowledge that he wouldn’t be refueling until Blast Off’s next visit.  He was desperately going to have to win his next match in the ring.  

Vortex, at least, was nice enough to pay for drinks – they weren’t even half bad.  Certainly better than the drek the Dancing Minibot offered.

There was no Nightmare Fuel to be found, but three cubes of Onyx had the same effect.  Vortex even prepared the cubes himself, pouring them directly into Brawl's mouth, the way the pleasurebots had done for Quake earlier.  He didn't drink himself, but instead fed on Brawl's engex-flavored kisses, once he'd finished, tasting every last corner of Brawl's mouth with his glossa.  It all left Brawl feeling floaty and buzzy and warm.  He had a beautiful, charming Rotary straddling his waist, with surprisingly sharp talons (had they been that sharp before?) dipping into the tiny gun barrels that lined his chest.  But Brawl was tired of fooling around.  He wanted to frag, and he wanted to frag now.

He grabbed onto Vortex’s wrist, leading those skilled fingers down his chest, his belly, all the way to his interface panel.  “Frag it Vortex, stop playing.  You promised we’d interface.”

Vortex chuckled, barely visible over Brawl’s massive chest.  Damn the thing; he wanted to watch.  “Are you this forward with all your fragmates?”

“Only the ones I like.”

Vortex’s engine purred in approval.  “Open for me, and I’ll give you a night you’ll never forget.”

Brawl wasn’t about to refuse a request like that.  His panels shot open fast enough to leave him wincing at the snap of pain, but he didn’t care.  It was getting late, his head was heavy, and he wanted to get off before he passed out.  Thankfully, Vortex didn’t waste any time.  

Those scarred lips from earlier had immediately found his spike, mouthing softly at the top, getting their first taste of him.  They didn’t stay for long.  Vortex was quick to move his attention to the rest of Brawl’s spike, running his lips up and down its length, his clever tongue darting into every transformation seam, leaving a wet trail of oral solvents in its wake.  Once satisfied that Brawl was properly awake, he moved back to the head, wrapping his lips around it, and took the whole damn spike in one quick movement.  Primus, not even Pinpoint ever did that.

It was impressive, given their size disparity.  He was pretty sure that his spike was bigger than Vortex’s head proper, he could _feel_ that tracheal intake straining around him.  Out of curiosity, he reached for Vortex’s throat; the cabling had definitely expanded around his girth.  He couldn’t see it, but the knowledge of what was happening drove him mad in the best possible way.  

Vortex held the position for a long moment, allowing Brawl to enjoy the sensation of stuffing another mech so, before he began moving, bringing Brawl’s spike back out to his lips before taking him in again.  He never made it quite as deep as the first go, sacrificing depth in favor of speed, but his hands took care of what his mouth couldn’t reach, tracing his length – the sharp tips of those talons following the path his tongue had taken earlier.  Brawl was going to overload way too soon at this rate.

“Vortex,” he grunted, but Vortex didn’t seem to hear him.  He had to wrap his massive hands around that bobbing head and pry it from his spike in order to get through.  “ _Vortex_.”

“Hmm, yes?” Vortex giggled, wiping his slick mouth with the back of a hand.

“Do I get to stuff your valve too?”

Vortex took a moment to think that over, grinning like a smug aft all the while.  “I suppose we could do that,” he smiled, as though he knew something Brawl didn’t.

“Perfect!”  This was always Brawl’s favorite part – pinning a smaller mech beneath him, plowing into them with enough force to break a lesser frame.  He was pretty certain Vortex would be able to withstand any punishment he dealt.  Pleasurebots were used to rough handling, and Vortex was a war frame to boot.  He felt no guilt for what he was about to do.

But he couldn’t seem to move.  That was odd.

“Err, you gonna actually _do_ something?” Vortex chirped.

“Ugh, I think the engex is catching up with me,” he groaned, feeling disappointed.  “Think you could finish me off from up there?”

“Sure thing, Boss!”

Brawl couldn’t see very well from his position, but his optics were growing bleary anyway.  He didn’t need to see; he just needed to feel.  And indeed, he could feel the warm wet heat of Vortex’s valve above his spike, could feel the barest of friction as Vortex slid the outer nodes of his valve up and down, spreading his lubricants along Brawl’s length.  He kept at it for several moments, just long enough, that Brawl was beginning to fear he’d pass out before Vortex stopped playing around.

“Vortex,” he groaned again.

At last, Vortex seated himself over that stiff, straining spike, holding it steady in hand, and allowed himself to slide down to its base, impressing Brawl all over again.  He knew a valve could stretch, but Vortex took him with such ease, calipers eagerly spreading wide around him – Brawl was willing to bet that the flat plating of his belly had warped outward too; at least, he liked to imagine it had.  

More surprising than his valve’s ability to stretch wide, however, was its ability to stretch _deep._  He could hear a high-pitched, involuntary whine from his partner; pain.  He was likely at his limit; he didn’t move, sitting on Brawl’s spike for a long moment, vents raging like a storm, and engine roaring.  His frame couldn’t handle this.

Somehow, that struck Brawl as more hot than disturbing.  But he was nice enough to double-check.  “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Vortex hissed, trying to bite back a whimper.  “Sorry, it’s just been a minute since I’ve take someone of your size class.  I just gotta –” his vents coughed weakly, cutting him off.  “Yeah, there we go.  We’re good.”  

They probably weren’t, but Vortex had started rolling his hips anyway; he was facing the wrong way, his back to Brawl’s face.  It struck Brawl as an odd way to sit, but he didn’t mind the bleary sight of those quivering rotors visible over his own oversized chest, flexing in time with Vortex's every movement.  If he’d had the energy, he would have reached out and grabbed on.

As it was, he felt like a bit of a letdown.  He hated just lying around, immobile while his partner did all the work; but Vortex seemed to be enjoying himself, at least.  He squealed with each roll of his hips – had even managed enough control to raise himself up on his knees, not quite clearing the spike, before seating himself down again, way more violently than Brawl had expected.  It seemed Vortex had a bit of a masochistic streak in him.  

The real surprise, however, was when he rolled even farther forward, disappearing behind Brawl’s chest altogether.  The angle wasn’t as good, but those clever fingers hand found their way into his exposed valve, and though they never would have made it very deep, even if he’d been in a better position, at this point, even the slightest brush against the nodes at his entrance was enough to send him over the edge.  He overloaded with a wild roar, his hips bucking upwards involuntarily, leaving poor Vortex shrieking as he spilled his transfluid into that overstuffed little valve.  He hoped he hadn’t broken anything; it felt like he might have.

Vortex didn’t seem to mind however.  He’d slumped forward, squealing like the shameless little pleasurebot he was, his entire frame wracked in sharp, irregular convulsions, his fans working so hard that one of them had developed an unhealthy warbling sound, while hot sparks shot from his frame, burning Brawl’s plating where they made contact.   _That_ definitely wasn’t a good sign; Brawl had never seen anyone do that before.

“Vortex?” he murmured, once he found it him to do so.  

Vortex took his sweet time in answering.  Brawl had started to worry that he’d well and truly broke the little masochist, but before he could call out again, that warm, quivering heat pulled itself from him.  On trembling limbs, Vortex crawled up his frame, limply draping himself over Brawl’s chest.

“Primus,” he sighed, well and truly spent.  “That was good.  Been awhile since I’ve had a frag like that.”  His right hand slid up Brawl’s chest, to the turret at his back, dancing up and down the tender metal.

“Yeah,” Brawl agreed, softly.  “We should do it again.”

Vortex chuckled.  He really was a giddy little bot.  Points for enthusiasm, Brawl supposed.  "Here's hoping,” he said.  His hand was at the back of Brawl’s head now, his fingers, no longer so sharp as before, stroking gently at the nerve cluster at the head of his spinal strut.  It felt good, safe, despite the actual danger of such a position.  Brawl melted into the touch.

This was good.   _Vortex_ was good, and if Brawl got his way, he’d be seeing a lot more of the excitable little freak in the near future.  Maybe a relationship _could_ be forged in the Underground?  And maybe Onslaught _could_ be persuaded to help an Untouchable reach the surface?  Who knew?  Not Brawl.  But he was willing to make the effort.

He dozed off like that, with a satiated little Rotary sprawled out across him, not for a moment worried about being unconscious in the presence of a stranger.  Vortex wasn’t a stranger, after all.  Not anymore.

 


	5. Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swindle's got a routine he likes to keep to. It's what's gonna help him achieve his lofty goals; he's certain of it.

Dixosol was Swindle’s favorite day of the week  – the day that Megatronus fought in the coliseum.  Nothing quite brought the tourists flocking in like a chance to see the legendary Megatronus in action.  And where there were tourists, there was money  – easy money in gullible hands.

Nobles, who would have avoided the slums like the rust-bitten hellhole they were in normal circumstances, ventured into District Nine, easily the most well-kept of Kaon’s thirteen (technically fourteen) districts, and nobles expected premium energons, the sort the locals could only dream of getting their hands on.  They wanted novelties and trifles  – cute souvenirs to bring back to their District Two offices, their District One towers, to prove to their friends just how tough they were to participate, however tangentially, in such brutality.  They wanted to mingle (but not too deeply), to see the sights (but not  _ all _ of the sights), and pretend for a day that they were part of the lower castes.  And wasn’t that just the best way to go about doing it?

Most mechs hated the lot of them  – their entitlement of these tourists, their willful ignorance, their ability to cast off this image of poverty at the end of the day, like it was all some sort of thrilling game.  Swindle, of course, was not most mechs.  A good opportunist knew an easy target when he saw it, and never had there been forged a mech quite so opportunistic as Swindle. 

Swindle was a businessmech, and Dixosols were easily his most profitable day.  That wasn’t to say that business was bad every other day of the week  – far from it.  He was the sort of mech who got his greasy hands into everything; Dixosol just so happened to be scam the tourists day.  

His week truly began with Duosol, where he’d open up his operation in District Eight, for the opportunity to pawn off high quality, completely illegal weapons to hitmen, body guards, military negotiators, and the rare n’er do well that could actually afford his prices.  Come Tribusol, it was down to District Ten, to buy up fuels and ores from the refineries, which would be sold the next day up in the markets of District Seven.  Quinsol, was, of course, reserved for playing negotiator between slavers and their potential buyers (a bleak business, but ever so lucrative),  and on Senisol, he’d scurry on down to District Twelve to buy up whatever high-quality remains he could garner from the recently-deceased.  Septusol was reserved for salvaging further scrap on his own, if he felt he was running low on resources, Octosol was another trip to the markets, and he allowed himself a single day of rest on Novasol, in preparation for his beloved Dixosol.  Then, when his chronometer struck half past the sixteenth cycle on Unisol, with the profits of the week in hand, it came time to pay up what he owed to the ever-loathed Modulator, in order to keep his business running smoothly and safely.  

Rinse.  Repeat.  Ad infinitum.

It was a busy life, forging connections, buying, selling, building his fledgling empire one satisfied customer at a time.  But Swindle didn’t let that bother him.  He was doing what few others had the skill and bearings to do.  He was winning.

Business boomed, the money rolled in, Swindle moved up and up and up, as high as an Untouchable like him could get.  His flat in District Eight wasn’t half bad.  The outside was a bit shabby, of course, and the world beyond his window was dark as every other acre of land in the underground, but the sludge was thinner up here, the streets cleaner, and the Empties, securely out of sight.  Besides, the paltry exterior belied a rich interior, the sort only a well-connected merchant could achieve.

Sure, the space was a bit cramped, but that wasn’t so bad.  Swindle was a small mech, living in housing intended for war builds.  That meant excess space, and in Swindle’s case, he had loaded up every spare inch of his apartment with stuff.  Crystalline furniture, polished, engraved, and the latest in technological design; his recharge slab transformed to fit his rear tire, his chairs adjusted themselves in size and shape to suit any guest he found himself entertaining (should he find himself wanting to entertain anyone), the table in the main hall could grow and shrink as needed, even his desk had subspace drawers, perfect for jamming as much as possible into a tiny little hole.

It wasn’t just furniture either that exuded regality.  Swindle had linens, dyed in royal purples and gleaming golds  – to match his paint job.  Organic materials were a rare luxury, imported from alien worlds; of course Swindle had to fill his home with any textiles he could get his hands on.  Tapestries and tablecloths, decorative sheets, throws, and blankets that had an unfortunate tendency to get tangled up in his transformation seams, but they looked good, and felt soft, so Swindle kept them around.  

From the ceiling hung a chandelier, each of its glass bulbs able to shine in whichever color Swindle selected from an array of three hundred and seventy-seven.  An entire wall had been dedicated to a holo-caster, which could play every rare, Golden Age movie he’d collected over the years, at the same quality as the found in the theatres.  Usually, he used it to watch news broadcasts.  It was a bit of a waste, even Swindle could admit, but it was the sort of thing found in the home of every elite mech, or so he’d heard; it was only natural for one to find itself in Swindle’s house.

Data tracks stuffed his shelves to capacity  – some for entertainment, some for education, some for business.  Every surface was jam-packed with some kind of chalice or chest or useless, pretty trinket.  A delicate lileth bird chirped sweet melodies from its cage that dangled over the window, and when he grew tired of the thing’s soft melodies, he had a state-of-the-art sound system to blast the latest hits.  It was nearly-impossible to traverse Swindle’s home without tripping over the sheer volume of things he had lying around, would have been for a larger mech.  But frag it all, he’d put up with inconvenience for the illusion of luxury.  It was the best a lowlife like him was gonna get at any rate.

At least for now.

It was the system that kept him down, kept every bot in his or her place, but Swindle didn’t get to where he was by allowing himself to remain in ignorance.  He’d heard the rumors, seen the exodus of Gammas and Deltas from the Underground, their numbers unprecedented.  This Onslaught fellow was making waves up on the surface.

Not that Swindle cared about the surface.  He’d never be able to conduct business up there, Onslaught or no.  But the tides of change were upon their world, and though there was nothing Swindle could do to truly reach the sun, he sure as the Pit could make it to the top of the Underworld.

And that was the goal he was currently working at.

Every week, Modulator stole his share of Swindle’s hard-earned shanix, for the continued privilege of being allowed to operate in the Underground.  Swindle may have had all the fanciest toys, the scariest weapons, and the toughest body guards, but even he was no match for the hand of the Trifecta.  Yet.  He had a hunch that a shake up above would eventually be felt down here  – was already starting, if Vortex’s word could be trusted.

Hah.  Trust Vortex.  That was a laugh.

Speak of the devil . . .

It was Duosol, and Swindle was stationed at his District eight office, waiting on a pair of surly-looking mechs in military regalia.  The two had been inspecting his wares for hours, and Swindle was finally verging on making a sale.  It was down to a decision between an ion cannon or twin null rays.  The cannon had the power, sure, but the rays were devastating in the right hands, and neither mech could agree on which option was more suitable for their tiny mystery unit.  Swindle had done all he could, had upsold each product perhaps a bit too well; the argument between the customers was starting to get heated.  And that was when Vortex walked in.

“If I may cut in,” Swindle said quickly, hoping to close this sale as quickly as possible, “the ion cannon’s power is unrivaled, but it is a bit unwieldy.  If you’re looking to fit a significant number of mechs, the null rays may be your best bet.”

“That’s what I said, Bumper,” the taller of the two agreed, while his companion seethed.

“Null rays require finesse,” Bumper retorted.  This was going to go on for a bit longer; Swindle could tell.  But inevitably the null rays would win out, the mechs would make their purchase, and get out of here.  In the meantime, Swindle had a pesky Rotary to babysit.

Seeing Vortex in the Underground was not exactly unusual.  They had both worked themselves into unofficial positions of power; their paths crossed with frequency.  But to see him here, now, looking to do business?   _ That _ was a bit peculiar.  Vortex wasn’t exactly a gun-nut.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer,” Swindle threw on his winning smile  –  the same smile that could charm the shanix from the most stingy of nobles.  He knew well enough by now that such a thing would never work on Vortex, but habits were habits, and he had to maintain appearances for the other customers in his shop, the ones he did not know quite so well.  “What brings you to my humble shop today?”

Humble was right.  Swindle may have lived in luxury, but the wealth didn’t trickle down to his places of business.  What need was there?  Extravagance would have been lost on this riff raff.  All he need was functional electricity and a solid blast door, and he was good to go.  Why waste money on a cleaning crew?  On unnecessary amenities, or neon advertisements in the two-credit data streams?  Anybody who mattered already knew who he was and what he did; he never hurt for customers.

“I’m looking for that favor you owe me,” Vortex said sweetly in return.  Swindle could well-imagine the wide grin hiding just behind that mask.  He hated it.  A smile from Vortex was like the dangerous buzz of an ion cannon charging up.  Death was imminent when this psycho got happy.  Of course, a happy Vortex was better than the alternative.

But Swindle was not one for fear, at least on the outside.  He was too visible a target to be preyed on without consequence, and Vortex knew it.  Besides, Swindle was very good at being useful  – he had knowledge, he had goods, he had connections, not to mention impenetrable firewalls and two armed guards at his front door who were  _ not _ stupid enough to get close to this lunatic ; in essence, Swindle held all the cards. 

How far could he press his advantage?

“I’m sorry.  A favor you say?  I’m not sure what you mean.”

Vortex rolled his optics behind his visor, but played along like a good little customer.  “Well, you remember when I gave you that perfectly good industrial-sized t-cog a while back for a couple creds?”

Swindle’s grin began to flatten.  “I remember no such thing.  Do you mean the one with the scratch marks?  Because I paid you no less than what it was worth.”  He glanced past Vortex for a moment, gauging the attentiveness of his guards.  Both had their optics locked on that foul Rotary, blasters at ready.  Good.  For all his advantages, and for all the years they’d traversed the Underground, paths crossing with regularity, Swindle never made it through an interaction with this creep without fearing for his life.  What was it about him?  His deathly grey palette?  His obscured face?  His astronomical body count and well-documented history of sadism?  Who knew?

Vortex did not miss the moment of weakness.  He stretched his arms out wide, and flared his rotors in tandem  –  flirty, coy.  He liked playing up his presumed weaknesses with ignorant opponents; Swindle knew better than to fall for it.  It seemed they both had their habits.  

“You didn’t, and we both know it,” he said sweetly, “But it doesn’t matter.  I have a business venture for you.”  At once, his tone flattened, growing tired, and dangerously bored.  The sudden change in demeanor was likely meant to be unnerving, and Swindle wouldn’t count himself completely unaffected.

“I’m listening.”

“What I’m asking for ain’t gonna come cheap; I’m well aware of that.  But we’ve known each other how long?”

“Three vorns,” Swindle said easily.  This was not the first time Vortex had tried this  ‘old friend/long-time customer’ route.  Usually it netted him discounts, provided the request was reasonable.  Given what Swindle knew of the mech’s recent activities, however, he doubted it would be.

“And I’ve been a loyal customer that whole time, haven’t I?  Bringin’ you all kinds of quality contraband to trade with.  I may as well be an employee, given how much money I’ve made you.”

“And I pay you for your service every time,” Swindle insisted, his own demeanor growing terse.  “So let’s stop trying to butter me up and tell me what exactly it is you’re asking for.”

Vortex’s shoulders drooped, his rotors following, at once playful again.  “Aww, Swin.  You’re too clever for me.  Always seein’ through my attempts to net a discount.”

“You’re not gonna get anything from me if you don’t tell me what it is you want.”

Those red optics met his, intense, wicked, enough so that Swindle couldn’t suppress a shudder.  Whatever it was he wanted, it must have been horrific, illegal, dangerous.  That was not the sort of demeanor reserved for the mundane.

“I want a fake comm.”

Or it could be  _ that _ .  Again, Swindle found himself thrown, and he’d seen the request coming from the moment Vortex had first mentioned it.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“A new identity, Swin.  One that can get me up top.”  He pointed towards the ceiling, as though Swindle would have any reason to not know what Vortex meant by ‘up top.’  Aft.

“That’s funny,” Swindle responded with a haughty little chuckle.  “It sounded to me like you just asked me to forge you a new identity.  But we both know you didn’t ask that, because that would be ridiculous.”  Ridiculous, yes.  Impossible, no.  Swindle had the connections.  Swindle had the supplies.  But creating a new identity from scratch  – one that could get a mech as shady as  _ Vortex _ past the suspicious optics of border patrol would be no easy feat.   _ Swindle _ didn’t even have that luxury.

“You’ll do it though,” Vortex assured, sounding remarkably unthreatening.  “I know you can.  You can get anything if the price is right.”

Swindle shook his head with a snort.  “You can’t afford my price.”

“Which is?”  He leaned in close, playfully.  The guards at the door raised their guns.

It was a good question.  Other mechs had asked him to forge a new identity in the past, of course; and he’d always charged a pretty penny.  But they had been mechs with valid comms in the first place.  There was groundwork to build from, data to alter  –  sparkprints, names, and dates, and places.  He’d done a handful of caste changes, usually Epislon to Delta, though he wasn’t opposed to the occasional mech that wanted to downgrade for privacy’s sake.  Downgrading was always easier.

Forging a brand new identity from scratch, however?  Let alone a Delta Caste military mech?  The number of systems he’d have to hack, the amount of research he’d have to do to create a feasible backstory, the number of specialists he’d need to employ  – he was well into the thousands of shanix already, and he hadn’t even gotten to the finer details  – contacts, call logs, patch history.  Primus, this could easily take him a year of hard work, probably more.

“Two million shanix,” he said, confident in his offer.  Vortex could never afford it; no one in the Underground could ever hope to.  And Vortex was all too aware of the fact.  He backed off, folding his arms over his chest, staring thoughtfully at the floor.

“That’s a lot,” he said at last, unmoving.  “Anything I can do to drive down the price?”

It took every ounce of willpower Swindle had to not burst out laughing then and there.  “Not likely,” he said, mimicking Vortex’s posture.  The guards at the door had backed off, attentive as ever, and the other customers, discreet though they tried to appear, were also paying close attention.  This was the sort of information that folks found interesting, the sort of thing that could be sold to a curious soul.  Let them sell it.  Nothing about this conversation would be worth a thing, because it wasn’t going anywhere.  “Surely you must realize just how much work goes into creating a fake comm.  I don’t just conjure them out of thin air.  You’ve got to be put in systems, your backstory must be solid.  With no identity of your own, and nothing to work with, two million shanix is low-balling it.”

Vortex gave this further thought.  He was seriously considering this.  The idea was preposterous!  Surely he could keep working his way into Onslaught’s good graces from down here.  What did he need a comm for?

“I admit I don’t know exactly what you’ll be needing, but I can get you the backstory, I can get you contacts, a service record.  I’ve got a backdoor to the comms of a couple delta war frames; they can be your base.  And my sparkprint already exists in the system; you just gotta move it around like you normally would.  I’ll even provide the doc, if that what it takes.”

Vortex was in the system?  Wasn’t  _ that  _ interesting?  Untouchables were Untouchables because they had no identity  –  usually because they were cast offs, spares, or legally dead.  If Vortex was in the system, then that made him a lot more interesting than Swindle had initially anticipated.  The cheeky bastard knew exactly what he was doing  –  offering up valuable information as part of the bargain.  He  _ really _ wanted up there, didn’t he?

“I’ll knock a mil off,” Swindle said after a moment’s consideration.  “You got groundwork; good.  It’s still a high-risk operation which is gonna require  _ way _ more hands than I prefer to be involved in my work.  I don’t want anything to do with it unless the price is right.  I’ve worked too hard to get this far.  Not gonna throw it away for something like this.”

Vortex remained resolute.  “Well Swin, how’s this angle?  If you get me up there,” he pointed toward the ceiling again, “I’ll get you up there in exchange.”

“Who says I even  _ want _ to be up there,” Swindle scoffed, rolling his optics.  “I have everything I need right here.”  It wasn’t a lie exactly.  Swindle did have everything he needed . . . for the time being.  Vortex saw right through him, of course.

“Yeah right!” he cackled in return.  “Everyone who’s anyone knows that you’re never satisfied.  You’re a mech what always wants more.  Someday you’ll be the strongest mech in the Underground, I’m sure.  But then what?  You’ll hit the ceiling, quite literally I’d say.  No more money to make.  Nowhere left to go but back down, down, down to the gutters.”  He let his rotors droop with every repetition, until the tips of the outer pair brushed against the floor.  The position looked uncomfortable, but did a nice job of illustrating his point.  Swindle narrowed his optics in disgust.

“But think of how much world exists up there?” he continued, perking up.  “Think of the opportunities.  The wealthy patrons who have no idea what to expect from you.  It’s a whole new frontier to explore and exploit!  And I can get you there.”

This time, Swindle  _ did  _ laugh.  “Vortex, buddy, I don’t deal in hypotheticals.  You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“Think about it though,” Vortex protested, his tone jarringly serious.  “The world is about to change, maybe drastically.  Mechs like you and me might finally actually have a place to call our own, yeah?  We won’t got nothing to prove no more.”  Vortex already had nothing to prove; the words were meant entirely for Swindle.  “We’ll be able to take our world, and move it into theirs, and what could be a more desirable future than that?”

Swindle sighed, shaking his head.  “Why do you want this so badly?  You’re a smart mech, no matter what you like to pretend.  I’m sure you can play with your new, favorite little toys just fine from down here.  Just go out and do whatever it is you’re trying to do.  You don’t need a fancy comm or a new identity.  Pit, you could probably sneak right past border patrol with no comm at all if you set your mind to it.  You don’t need me.”

“Swin, you know what the difference between you and me is?”  Those red optics were boring into Swindle’s again, with far more intensity than Swindle was comfortable with.  

He shouldn’t have been humoring this.  Vortex was notorious for getting what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted.  Words were his weapon of choice, more so than any gun.  But alas, curiosity led Swindle astray.  “What?”

“Goals.  You have them.  I don’t.  That’s why you’re rising straight to the top,”  _ again  _ with that damned pointing at the ceiling.  Never let it be said that Vortex was uninteresting to watch, “While  _ I  _ flood my evenings with cheap engex and shallow interface, when I’m not just lying around on the floor in a Syk-fueled haze, wishing I was somewhere else.”  From any other mech, the confession would have been poignant.  But Swindle wasn’t so naive to fall for such a trick.  Vortex didn’t give a shit about the emptiness of his existence; why would he expect Swindle to?

“But now?  I have a goal!”

“To reach the surface?  Get in tight with Onslaught?  Live an upright life?”  Despite Swindle’s even tone, the words were a joke.  Vortex couldn’t possibly have cared about any of this.

And indeed, he was smiling again, behind that mask, the red of his visor glowing brightly.  “I want to watch the world burn  – I want to be there, at the forefront, right in the middle of the action, the way I never got to be; the way that was denied me.  That’s a noble goal, right?  A war frame what’s tryin’ to be on the front lines?”

It really wasn’t, but Swindle wasn’t about to admit it.  Vortex wanted this badly; it was very unlikely that he would leave until he got what he want.  And though killing Vortex would be the easiest option, the fact of the matter was, he  _ had _ been an excellent business partner for a very long time, always willing to allow Swindle to shortchange him, provided he had fun on the mission beforehand.  Vortex had never been the type to care about money; all the better for Swindle.

Perhaps they could reach a compromise.

“Alright Vortex.  I think we can work something out here.”

Vortex perked up at that, his EM field smiling, but his optics hard, suspicious.  “You mean it?”

“Sure thing.  You do the leg work  –  play my errand bot.  Convince discounts from the contractors.  Get the framework, write me up a history, help me with the base coding, and bag me the doctor to do it.  I’ll discount you.”

Swindle didn’t miss the subtle twitch of a rotor.  Curiosity.  Good.  Now they were getting somewhere.  “And there is, of course, one more little thing I ask of you.”

“Yeah?”

It was Swindle’s turn to lean in close, cup Vortex’s cheek in his hand, as though he were moving in for a kiss.  Both mechs knew better, but the spectators were apt to be sufficiently fooled.  And while their thoughts were turned to fantasies of voyeurism, Swindle whispered into Vortex’s audial: 

“Help me take out Modulator, and I’ll knock your price down to twenty thousand.  Does that sound reasonable?”

He hadn’t been expecting Vortex to retract his mask, to throw himself so deeply into what had been intended as a fake kiss, using Swindle’s shock to feel his way around that startled mouth.  He pulled away just as quickly, dancing out of reach before the guards had the chance to intervene.

“Twenty thousand shanix.  You drive a steep bargain, my friend.  But I’m in.  I’ll get you every last credit, let’s say . . . by the end of the week.  That’s when the fun can begin!”

It was an impossible boast.  Swindle was well aware of Vortex’s less-than stellar financial situation.  He wasn’t in debt, nor was he exactly struggling, but his failure to off Blast Off had cost his reputation dearly.  There was no way he could possibly make twenty thousand shanix in a week with a tarnished name.

Then again, Vortex was not a bot to be underestimated.

~~~

It was to be an abnormal week for Swindle; that much was certain.  The next day saw Vortex dropping a thousand shanix down payment directly into Swindle’s account  – apparently everything he had on hand at the moment.  Primus, the lunatic was really going through with it.  One thousand shanix was nothing to sneer at, though with nineteen thousand more to go, Swindle doubted very much that Vortex would manage it.

Tribusol and Quattorsol passed without incident, seeing Swindle performing his rounds in Districts Seven and Ten just like always, but Quinsol?  Another fifteen hundred.  Rumor had it that five of Catalyst’s major hits had been taken out in that week alone.  Swindle had no doubts that Vortex was responsible for at least three of them, but surely he realized that he wouldn’t be able to pay in murder alone.  The Assassins’ Guild was not exactly the sort of organization anyone would want as an enemy.

A couple gambling wins saw seven hundred and forty-five more shanix in Swindle’s account on Senisol, and later in the day, a certain enthusiastic Rotary swung by his shop with three hundred shanix worth of body parts, and another two hundred forty he’d squeezed from ‘sugar daddies’ over the week.  Swindle was a little displeased by the use of scrap metal as currency, but he’d never forbid it in the contract, and truth be told, he could probably resell it for twice the cost; there was no reason to deny Vortex.  This time.

By day six of the deal, Swindle had received an additional cache of clearly-pilfered goods totaling four hundred eighty-five shanix, six hundred shanix from another hit, twelve cubes of unprocessed Syk (nine hundred seventy-six shanix), which Swindle, naturally, avoided inquiring about the origins of, and eighty-five shanix more from a mysterious night on the town.  Vortex was clearly having a busy week; but it wasn’t enough.  A little more than fourteen thousand shanix stood between him and his goal, and he had two days left in the week.  Surely Vortex had realized this as well.

Swindle didn’t see Vortex at all the next day, nor did he receive any transfers in his name.  Either the creep was scheming something  _ huge _ , or he’d given up.  With Vortex, it was never really possible to tell.  Swindle found himself cautiously optimistic, nonetheless.  Even with so much debt left unpaid, he had begun looking into Vortex’s request, spending his free day reading up on military history, researching which organizations he’d need to slip his client’s information into, how their security rated, and who amongst his contacts would be best suited for such a job.  It had been Vortex to boast that he’d have the money within the week, but the contract had offered no time limit.  And while Swindle expected no miracles from Vortex, he felt it was best to prepare, just in case.

But Dixosol came and Dixosol went, and Vortex failed to come through.  There was no miracle to be found here.  Sure, Swindle made five thousand shanix from tourists in his own right, but nowhere among them was a certain scheming Helicopter ready to dump heaps of treasure into Swindle’s waiting hands.  That wasn’t to say that Vortex was  _ nowhere _ to be found at all.  Swindle saw plenty of him, flirting his way around Electric Oasis after Megatron’s match.

What did he think he was doing?  No one in his right mind would pay fourteen thousand shanix for a night of pleasure.  And what did  _ Swindle _ think he was doing for that matter?  He’d never been the type for dance clubs; it was harder to talk prospective clients to part with their hard-earned cash when they couldn’t hear his carefully-modulated voice, couldn’t see the calculated twinkle in his oversized optics, the familiar comfort in his smile.  And yet, here he was, pounding back a Vesper and reading over a copy of  _ The Blueprint of the Spark. _

_ Reading _ !  In this place!  What a flimsy excuse.  He was here to spy on Vortex, no more no less, and, as was usually the case, both parties knew it.  It didn’t take long at all for his prey to find him, to slide into his booth with a cube of nanite-infused Ultra-Ex in hand and a glazed look in his optic.  His energy field held the frantic buzz brought on by boosters, and his vents reeked with a familiar stench.  Circuit boosters and Syk in conjunction?  Was he trying to get himself killed?

“So,” Swindle said, eyes fixed on his data pad, “It’s the end of the week.”

Much to his annoyance, grey fingers fumbled over his data pad, forcing it down onto the table, while the fingers of Vortex’s other hand clumsily pressed to his lips, in an admirable attempt at a ‘shoosh’ gesture.

“Nonono,” he laughed.  “We made the deal on  Duosol.  It hasn’t been a full week yet, so I’m’still got  _ plenty _ time what to fix you up,” he slurred, his optics flickering, as though they were likely burn out at any second.  Swindle briefly wondered what the world looked like through those optics right now.  Even the paltry attempt at sensory-overload of the club must have seemed a torrid black hole of agonizing light and color, screaming loudly enough in that poor mech’s mind to drown out the stench of the music.  Swindle had tried Syk exactly once; it was not for him.

“Tomorrow is Unisol,” Swindle reminded, slapping away those pesky fingers, which had started wandering across his face, as though it were made of those luxurious organic textiles Swindle favored.  “Modulator demands his pay; you’d have to make the twenty k all over again to make up what you’re gonna owe him.”

Vortex burst out in a fit of giggles.  “Nonononono!” he gasped between vents.  “I told you already.  You’ll get your payment by the week’s end  – heheh, weekend.  That’s tomorrow  – the weekend’s beginning.”

“Primus,” Swindle groaned, slumping forward, his crest tapping lightly against the screen of his data pad.  “How in the frag-forsaken Pit did you allow yourself to get this wasted?  How on Unicron’s sludge-caked tailpipe have you managed to survive this long?  You’re a wreck, you know that?  A rust-bitten, slag-licking, glitched up pile of flaming wreckage and twisted metal and broken glass that  _ somehow _ manages to maintain the shape of a functioning bot.”

Vortex laughed again.  “Is that what I am?  Sounds about right.”  It was the most lucid thing he’d said yet.  Swindle glanced up, peering over the seat of his helm, wondering if _somehow_ he was being played – if, by some impossible miracle, the crazed glitch with whom he was speaking had somehow faked the physiological symptoms of dual-clocking, and was in fact, only pretending to be a wasted wreck to throw Swindle off guard.  “But I’m takin’ care myself, you don’ gotta worry ‘bout me, though it’s sweet of you to care.  Nobody’s ever cared quite what you do, Swin.  That’s why you’re my fav’rite mergh – merchi – _merchant_ in all the Underground.”  Nope.  The mech was _gone._ Swindle’s head fell forward again.  Frag, why had he come out here?

He felt a dark shadow over his frame, a grasping, buzzing EM field reaching out to him, entrenching itself within his every circuit.  Swindle jolted upright, his spare tire hitting the seat at his back.  Vortex was on the table now, his face mere inches away, and his mask retracted, a sneering grin across his lips.  The weird whimsy of the action would have been easy to chalk up to the  _ way  _ overclocked state of his processor, but there was an unprecedented amount of understanding behind that visor; somehow, despite all the slag he’d put his frame through tonight, Vortex knew exactly what he was doing.

“Trust me, Swin.  I’ve got a big turbofax – _fox,_ what’s gonna smelt tonight.  And tomorrow, you’ll get every last credit I still owe you  –fourteen thousand seventy-five, right?  I’ve been counting, y’know?”

“I somehow doubt that.”  Swindle folded his arms, rolling his optics and trying his hardest to scoot his way out of the booth, but a powerful arm blocked his escape, caged him in.  Frag.  Where was a bodyguard when you needed one?

“You’ll see.  Tomorrow.”  And just like that, he was gone, flailing his way back out onto the dance floor, getting lost once more amongst the crowd. 

Swindle had a sinking feeling in his tanks.  He didn’t know what Vortex had planned  – couldn’t begin to imagine.  But whatever it was, it was sure to be big, and very, very bad.  What monster had he unleashed?

~~~

It was worse than he’d feared.

Modulator was a punctual mech; always claimed his earnings at half past the sixteenth cycle Unisol evening.  It was a moment Swindle always awaited with dread.  The more a mech earned, the more Modulator took.  He had cronies keeping a close watch on comm transfers; it was impossible to hide profits from him for long. 

Swindle had made twenty-three thousand shanix this week, significantly more than usual, thanks in-part to Vortex’s efforts.  But when half past the sixteenth cycle rolled around, and the money in Swindle’s account remained stationary, he began to worry.

Maybe someone had just made a mistake?  Maybe the mech in charge of the transfer was out sick today?  There had to be a rational explanation, something that could chase away the looming certainty of ill-tidings that bubbled in Swindle’s tanks.  He turned on the news, hoping that a little sound could distract him.

The transfer would come soon.  There was no reason to worry.

And indeed, after seven kliks of anxious waiting, he heard the comforting, terrible  _ ping _ on his comm  –  the sound of money moving between accounts.

_ There, _ he thought,  _ It was just a bug in the system.  We’re all good.  Vortex didn’t  _ actually _ do anything stupid.  We’re fine. _

He wasn’t fine.  In fact, his spark raced, his field flared, and his already-large optics bulged, pupils irising down to tiny pinpricks, causing the world around him to diminish in focus, to grow in height, in breadth and width.  The numbers in his account weren’t going down. 

They were going  _ up _ .

By fourteen thousand seventy-five shanix exactly.

Frag Vortex!  Frag that loose-valved, Syk-brained, reckless dual-clocking pile of hot slag.  What had he done?  And more importantly, how had he managed to make the prospect of gaining money so very terrifying?

“We come to you live with a breaking report from District Nine, were Modulator, a Gamma Caste entrepreneur from Kaon Heights, was found dead in his home.”

Swindle’s vision focused, zooming in on the lips of the reporter bot, scarcely able to hear the words that came out of her mouth.

“The Enforcers say there are still no leads, but given Modulator’s known ties to an organization known in the Underground as the Trifecta, it is suspected that there will be plenty of fallout still ahead.”

_ Scrap!  Scrap!  Scrap!! _

His spark was pulsing loudly, rhythmically in his chest,  _ thrum, thrum, thrum,  _ drowning out the words of the reporter, the singing of his lileth, the ambience from the street below.  He didn’t know how the little glitch had managed it, but Vortex had killed Modulator  – or gotten him killed.  It was everything Swindle had ever wanted, and yet it was simultaneously the worst thing that could have possibly happened to him.

Scratch that.

It soon became apparent to him that the thrumming of his spark was not the sound of his spark at all, but of someone pounding on his front door.  Who the frag even knew where Swindle lived?  He’d done a very careful job of keeping his personal life out of the public eye.  Despite the décor, he didn’t make a habit of entertaining guests, and though he had plenty of contacts, he was not one for friends. 

Obviously, it was one of Modulator’s mechs.  They’d seen the transfer.  They knew he was connected. They were coming for him.

Swindle remained rooted to the spot, frantically searching the room for a weapon  – best weapons dealer in the Underground, couldn’t find a damn blaster when he needed one!

The pounding continued all the while.  Polite, yet insistent.  The hitman knew he was home  – of course he did!  Anyone would have heard the news broadcast with  _ his _ sound system.  Curse the thing!  What the frag had possessed him to make such a stupid purchase?!

But maybe it wasn’t a hitman.  A hitman wouldn’t have bothered knocking.  And an enforcer would have kicked the door down.  It was fine.  He would be fine.  Swindle made a living sweet-talking mechs into giving him exactly what he wanted.  He could get a couple investigators off his tailpipe no problem.  After all, he truthfully had no idea how Modulator had perished.

Just to be safe, he lifted his gold-embossed, wire mesh rug, palmed in the key code, and pulled out a small scatter blaster, which he promptly slipped into his subspace.   _ There you go Swindle.  It’s amazing what you can do with a calm mind. _

“Just a minute,” he called out, flicking off the holo-caster and burying his weapons cabinet back beneath the rug.  Okay.  Moment of truth.  He trotted to the door, forcing his pulse to steady, gripping his EM field in tight, and painting that winning smile on his lips once again.  He had this.

The door slid open.

The door slid closed  – or would have, had Vortex’s hand not blocked it.

“Swindle!” he chirped, forcing his way into the room with a cheery lilt in his step.  He didn’t seem like a mech that had just murdered one third of the Primus-damned  _ Trifecta _ , but his demeanor didn’t mean a damned thing.

“Vortex,” Swindle replied, not bothering to match the other’s tone.  With a drooping frame, he slid the door shut behind him, though he remained ready to deploy his blaster at a moment’s notice.  “I’d ask why you’re here, but I think it’s better if I don’t know.”

The frag-hat was sprawled across the sofa, fiddling around with the controls with no rhyme nor reason.  The sofa moved up, it moved down, it grew a headrest, the backseat retracted, the arms popped up, askew.  It didn’t seem as though he was adjusting for his frame; he just wanted to be annoying.  

“Probably for the best,” he agreed.  Despite his best efforts to be an irritating slag-sucker, there was a tired edge to his voice.  It was probably the vices of last night, catching up to him.  His optics weren’t quite so bright as usual, and his rotors had adopted an incessant, involuntary little quiver.  Idiot.  “Nice digs you got here, by the way.  If I’d known how nice you were livin’, I woulda paid you a visit  _ way _ sooner.”

“Speaking of?” Swindle loomed over the back of the sofa (yup, that was back up  _ again) _ , arms folded, feet planted firmly.  It was nice to look down on someone else for a change, even if that someone happened to be lying on his back, stretched out with an arm thrown across his face like a pathetic lush with a hangover.

“I thought you weren’t gonna ask.”

“I’m not gonna ask why you’re here, but I have no problem asking why you think I’m not going to kick you right back out on the street.”

Vortex raised his arm just enough to allow innocent red optics to blink at him from behind their visor.  Innocent.  Yeah right.

“I’m not here to hide, or anything” he explained.  “But I put a lot of work into honoring my end of our bargain.  I’m sticking around until you prove that you’re gonna honor  _ yours. _ ”

And that was that.  Scatter blaster or not,  _ hungover  _ or not, Swindle was ill-prepared to take Vortex in a fight, and, truth be told, he  _ had _ paid every last credit of the twenty thousand owed, within a week no less, and, even more surprisingly, had offed the greatest threat to Swindle’s own prosperity.  He’d done his job and he’d done it well, and as a businessmech, Swindle had to respect that. 

He didn’t much fancy the thought of Vortex in his home, but he would put up with it for the time being.  The mech was notorious for spending his nights out and about with strangers and lovers and his creepy-aft little  _ hobbies _ anyway.  Chances were, he’d get bored and leave soon enough.  For now, Swindle would humor him.  It was only right.

Against his every instinct, he turned his back on Vortex, navigating the packed clutter of his loft to the over-stuffed cluster of shelves in the corner, and pulled out a handful of data pads.  With peripheral vision, he could  _ just _ make out Vortex, peering curiously over the back of the sofa.

“Whatcha doin’ over there, Swin’?”

Swindle didn’t bother replying, instead returning to the sofa, nudging the pesky copter’s legs out of the way, and spilling his handful of tablets across the table.  Vortex sat up, leaning over his shoulder to watch with curiosity.  Swindle didn’t like being in such close contact with a maniac like this, but he was confident Vortex wouldn’t hurt him at this point; not until he had what he wanted.

He flicked on each of the data pads:

_ The Blueprint of the Spark _

_ Military History – the Quintesson Wars _

_ District Seven: Directory of Bots ( _ and Eight through Thirteen as well _ ) _

_ Security Risks and Firewalls: What You Need to Know _

Each tablet was like that  – the information Swindle had been gathering over the week that would help him build a new identity for Vortex from more-or-less scratch.  Already, he’d sorted through most of it, highlighting relevant passages, and planning his next series of steps.  Vortex didn’t know that however, and when it came to pleasing a madmech that could cross your every circuit with a few flicks of his hand, it was best to operate as clearly as possible.  And much to his own joy, he could feel the happy hum of Vortex’s EM field filter its way through him once again.  The sensation itself wasn’t pleasant, but the feeling was more than a little contagious. 

After all, at this point, the only thing standing between Swindle and his ultimate victory was one little mech’s comm project.  He was halfway to his dream already.

“Well then,” he said, twisting around to meet Vortex’s optics, and smiling his best businessmech smile.  “Let’s get started, shall we?”

 

 


	6. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawl cannot forget that night of passion. Regardless of what anyone else says, he is certain that it was no mere one night stand.

_ Crunch! _

It was nice to feel the tough armor of his opponent crumble beneath his touch.  He didn’t particularly have anything against poor Landmine, but the week had been particularly hellish, and breaking things (and especially people) was cathartic.  Also yelling.

“ARRRRGH!  TAKE THAT YOU STUPID GLITCH!!  AND THAT!  AND THAT!”  Each word articulated a punch – to the jaw, the throat, the shoulder.  Landmine didn’t stand a chance; Primus, it was good to finally let loose, to not have to worry about losing believably, or the emptiness of a predetermined win.  This was his real strength.  This was really him, beating another mech senseless in the ring.  What a time to be alive.

Fighting was so much better than sulking.  Sulking was the worst.  Sulking sapped his will to live, replaced his every thought with anxious speculation:

_ Was I not good enough? _

_ Was it all a lie? _

_ Is he alright? _

It had been a little over a week since his affair with Vortex, and the longer they spent apart, the more he began to wonder if that was all it was.  But how could it be?  They had connected!  Vortex had been so interested in his life, and had shared deeply personal details of his own, and – and he was so small and vulnerable, and this was a dangerous place to be, and sure, he was smart and sassy and a war frame, but given how eager he was to insult Quake, it seemed likely that he’d have a lot of enemies.  He could have been murdered and dumped in an alley, and Brawl never would have known a thing.  It was terrible!

And every day that passed without contact, that gruesome fate seemed all the more likely.

He remembered that morning after, waking up to Blast Off’s furious comm – his choice to stay the night in the Underground had caused him to miss his meeting with Blast Off, where he was meant to learn he was fighting Landmine this Unisol.  An angry, prissy Space Shuttle wasn’t very high on his list of fears, however.  And he was ever so reluctant to move that sweet, soft frame that was still draped over his chest, optics offline, rotors twitching every so often.  Brawl wondered what he was dreaming about.

Last night, he’d been too tired to so much as lift a hand to offer pleasure to his companion, but nothing was here to stop him now.  He reached out, running a gentle finger along the length of a single blade – it was smoother than he’d expected, and so, so fragile.  He easily could have wrapped his hand around the mechanism, squeezed until it crumbled in his grasp – but he wouldn’t have done that.  Primus, but the thought had him half pressurized right there.  He wondered if Vortex would be up for a second round.  He’d seemed pretty drained after last night.

“Your friend is loud,” he mumbled against Brawl’s chest.  It seemed a little strange; Blast Off hadn’t sounded particularly loud, certainly not enough to be audible so far from his audial, but he chalked it up to Rotary hearing, or something, and let it drop.

“Morning,” Brawl chuckled, wrapping his second arm around that beautiful bot, cupping his aft and hoisting him close enough for a soft kiss.  “How you feeling?”

“Mmm, like I got plowed by a tank.”  He returned the kiss sleepily, then planted another, and another, each more hungry than the last.  And there went Brawl’s spike.

“Argh, s-sorry!” he yelped, pushing the hungry Helicopter away.

Vortex, of course, chuckled, scooting closer to the newly-revealed spike, a ravenous look in his optics.  “Don’t be sorry,” he laughed.  “I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Primus, how had this perfect mech landed in his lap?  There wasn’t a malicious strut in that one’s frame.  Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to voice what was on his mind?

“You wouldn’t, uh, be up for another go, would you?  I mean, I can understand if you’re not  – I know I’m a lot bigger than you, and you took me all the way last night, and that was crazy!  I can’t believe you did that, but you’re probably tired, you look tired, and I should probably just go anyway  – Blast Off is mad enough as it is, and I probably broke your valve or something  – you were so tight, Primus!  But like in a good way.  And I didn’t mean to get all turned on again thinking about it, but I couldn’t help it, and now I’ve got this spike problem, and –”

Those firm, scarred lips planted themselves on his; that lithe body crawled up his own, legs gingerly straddling his waist, trapping his spike between their frames.  His panels remained closed, but the positioning was promising.

“Vortex?” he murmured, once that sweet Rotary had pulled away.

Vortex smiled that mischievous smile of his; Brawl swore, he would have done anything to protect it.  “We can go again, if that’s what you want.  I’d hate to leave you unsatisfied.”  He ground his hips against Brawl’s again, though without much force.  His shoulders stiffened, and his rotors gave a soft shudder of discomfort.

“Are you sure?” Brawl pressed.  He wanted this; of course he did, but Vortex was too important to risk losing for a shot at interface.

“Just . . . be gentle.”  He smiled, rolling off of Brawl’s chest, and onto the scant berth at his side, stretching his frame out like a present.  “I trust you.”

That was all the permission Brawl needed.  He was gentle, or at least, he was pretty sure he was.  It was difficult to control the strength of his thrusts at times, and every so often, he’d hear a soft whimper of pain, a yelp of discomfort from his partner, but Vortex urged him onward every time, offering soft encouragements.

“You’re doing great.”  “I like this.”  “You feel so good, Primus!”

Brawl was careful not to bottom out; even  _ he _ could tell that going in too deep was more than Vortex could take right now, but it didn’t matter.  He was happy to bask in that beautiful mech’s EM field, feel his warm, inviting presence around him, bury himself in that willing frame.  It didn’t take him long to overload.  He didn’t think Vortex managed one, despite his assurances of the contrary.

“You worry too much,” Vortex sighed, waving off the concerns.  “You were great, seriously.  I couldn’t have asked for a better partner.”  His frame lacked the satiated buzz of overload, but his movements as he crawled out from beneath Brawl, resuming his previous perch, draped across his chest, were weak, wibbling – he probably was physically incapable of continuing.

“I’m sorry,” Brawl groaned.  “I pushed you too hard!  I should have been more careful – I shouldn’t have asked you to go again!  Primus, I’m such an idiot!”

He hadn’t been expecting the slap.  It didn’t hurt.  Against the side of his thick helm, it felt like a light tap; it was far cuter than it had any business being.  Compounded with Vortex’s indignant face, he was two kliks away from spark failure.  This was too precious.

“I’m not made of glass Brawlie.  I promise, I’m fine.  If I wasn’t into it, believe me, you’d know.”

“But –”

A solitary finger pressed to his lips.  “No buts.  I don’t wanna hear another word about it.”  He let his frame fall slack after that, helm resting against Brawl’s chest, listening to the steady pulse of his spark.  

This was the life, wasn’t it?  Living the dream.  Brawl could have indulged in that mundane tranquility forever – just him and this mech, this  _ lover,  _ basking in the afterglow of their intimate connection, fully immersed in one another’s presence.  It was surprisingly normal, in a way Brawl had never experienced, and yet yearned for.

“But really,” Vortex murmured, nuzzling his cheek against a chest vent.  “You should probably go meet your friend before he disowns you or something.”

“What about you?” Brawl asked, reluctant to move.  How could he dislodge such a sweet, peaceful bot?  “Maybe I could get your comm?  I’d love to meet you again.”

Vortex peered up, a small frown on his lips.  “I don’t think having  _ my _ comm in your contacts will do you any favors with border patrol.”  At Brawl’s imminent disappointment, however, he shifted upwards, offering up another kiss, chaste and gentle this time.  “But don’t worry.  I’ll find  _ you _ .  I’m pretty good at that sort of thing.  You just gotta trust me.”

And trust Vortex, he had.  But he was starting to lose faith.  With every day that had passed with no sign of those striking red optics, that grisly grey paintjob, those hypnotic rotors, the anxiety, the doubt, the anger grew worse.  Landmine got to bear the brunt of it.  Poor sucker didn’t stand a chance.

His opponent crumpled to the ground, his frame crushed, battered, bleeding; he did not get up. 

“The winner, by knockout, is Brawl!” screamed the announcer, and the moderate crowd erupted in cheers.  A Silver Leaguer like him would never draw in quite the audience he would have preferred, but for what it was, the turnout was good.  And after those three losses in a row, most bets were against him; Brawl would be making some good money tonight.  Thank Primus.  He’d been struggling for far too long now.

“Way to go, champ!” Drillbit cheered as he greeted Brawl in the Gladiator’s Corridor on his way out, his tone completely different than the previous week.

“Where we goin’ tonight?” another veteran-turned-gladiator, Roughshod grinned his broken grin, slapping Brawl on the back.  Guy had lost half his mouth in the war, and couldn’t afford to fix it.  Of course, that didn’t curb his love of partying.

“You’re buyin’, right?” asked Heavy Metal, a former miner, current gladiator, forever opportunistic aft.

“In your dreams,” Brawl laughed, not entirely released from his previous bitterness.  One week these wretched mechs were mocking him and his losses, the next, they craved his attention  – practically flung themselves at his feet.  Who would want such fickle friends?  

. . .

Brawl, that’s who.  Fickle they may have been, but at least they were  _ here _ .  And if he went out tonight, maybe he’d find Vortex, or at the very least, another willing pleasurebot.  He was sick of waiting around.

“It’s gotta be Electric Oasis,” he said, betraying none of the doubt he felt.  “Good drinks, good music, good atmosphere, and the DJ’s really cute.”

The suggestion was met with a general round of agreement.  The place was one of the better bars in the Underground, if not a bit on the pricey side for the neighborhood.  No one cared about money after a match, however.  High from the vicarious bloodlust, eager to indulge their most carnal desires – engex, interface, and general merrymaking were the only natural conclusion to a night at the coliseum.

Too bad nobody gave Blast Off the memo.

He was waiting for Brawl at the entrance to the Gladiator Corridor, arms folded behind his back, head held high.  He’d long since passed the point of needing a friend to hold his hand down here, but his smug attitude couldn’t help but draw attention to him, even though his frame was painted in dark, drab colors that obscured his Alpha nature.  Mechs stared as they passed him by; he ignored them.  There was only one mech he had an interest in at the moment, much to Brawl’s dismay.

“Brawl,” he said, as Brawl and his gaggle of hanger-ons made to pass by.  Brawl stopped mid-step, peering over and around his surrounding entourage, which had followed suit, if not reluctantly.

“Why are we stopping?  Come on, Brawlie!   _ Drinks!” _  He shook off the grasping arms of Speed Demon, one of the very rare Speedsters to be found amongst the ranks of the Gladiators.

“Don’t be daft,” Drillbit snapped.  “That’s his sponsor.   _ And  _ an Alpha!”  Any further protest fell silent at the explanation.

“Err, ‘sup?” Brawl shot back, once the crowd had calmed itself.

“I need to speak with you.”  Blast Off’s tone was flat as ever, boring, just as he was. 

“Now?” Brawl whined.  “You do know that I’ve got an afterparty to get to.”

“This won’t take long.”

Brawl doubted that.  Blast Off didn’t give a crap about him, or his reputation, or his leisure time.  He was always about business, business, business.  No wonder nobody liked the guy.  He wouldn’t know how to have fun if his life depended on it.

The mechs of his entourage were glancing between the two, impatiently.  He had no doubts that many longed to tell Blast Off off, to drag Brawl to the bar for the night of promised fun, to pretend that the encounter had never happened  –  but not a soul dared.  Insulting an Alpha was a great risk, one that most mechs were smart enough to avoid.

There was no getting around this.  With a heavy sigh and a slump of his treads, Brawl shooed on his companions.  “You guys go on ahead.  Electric Oasis, remember that.  I’ll catch up in a klik.”

Admiration had turned to condescension in record time; Brawl hated Blast Off for it.  He may not have much enjoyed the company of the other gladiators, but at least it  _ was _ company.  A bot could only be stuck all on his lonesome for so long before he started to go mad.  If only Blast Off was smart enough to realize that.

The crowd of gladiators, despite their displeasure, did disperse, most heading in the direction of District Eleven for the promised night of fun.  Brawl couldn’t wait ‘til Blast Off said his say, so that he could join them. 

“So,” he growled, “What’s so important that you gotta interrupt my budding social life?”

Blast Off shook his head.  “Not here.”  He moved away from the wall, and motioned for Brawl to follow him.  “This way.  There’s a little shop in District Eight; I’m in with the owner.  We can hire out a booth and talk there.”

“Talk what?”  Brawl folded his arms beneath his chest in a huff, but followed in his companion’s footsteps.

“The future.  Now, no more of that.  Not here.  Come.”

It seemed that Blast Off had become quite the Underground expert in his time working down here.  He neither faltered nor glanced around as he led Brawl through District Nine’s active bazaars, past the mass of Tourists, down carefully-kept streets, and up the precarious scaffolding that provided the quickest way to District Eight.  He maintained his focus all the way until they reached a small energon treat shop, only in a mild state of disrepair.  Once inside, he ordered two Magnesium Floats from the shopkeep, before directing Brawl down a long, dark hall, and into a room that was a bit too small to comfortably fit two bots of their size.  Blast Off took a seat on the upholstered sofa, and directed Brawl to do the same.  It was more comfort than Brawl was used to, but he couldn’t help but feel the permanent impressions molded into the worn mesh beneath that fabric. 

“Uh, what is this place?  It seems a bit . . . empty?”

“It’s a front,” Blast Off explained, taking a sip of his drink, with neither joy nor disgust on his face.  Brawl much preferred to see his reactions to the drinks at Electric Oasis.  “Lickety-Split up there is a member of the Assassins’ Guild.  I’m paying her for the room so that we can talk in private.”

Brawl cocked his head, taking a sip of his own drink.  It was sweet, foamy; he rather liked it.  “So, uh – why did do we have to meet here?  And why now?  You  _ do _ know I got certain obli – obligor –  _ obligorations  _ to uphold, right?”

“Obligations,” Blast Off corrected, without missing a beat.  “And one of those obligations is to meet with your sponsor to set up your next match.  Your behavior last week was unacceptable.  I don’t exactly have the flexibility in my schedule to deal with an employee who can’t keep to his appointments.  Were this the surface, your behavior would have gotten you fired.”

Brawl could barely scrape together enough sense for a reply.  “Wha?”

Thankfully, Blast Off had his back.  “I was down here to watch the match, and I have some negotiations to work out later in the evening.  I figured I may as well catch you before you had the chance to blow me off again.”

Brawl narrowed his eyes.  Stupid prissy Space Shuttle thought the world revolved around him!  “I didn’t blow you off!” he protested, but judging by the neutral look on his face, Blast Off remained unconvinced.

“Is that so?”

A part of Brawl wanted to lunge forward and bash in that smug Shuttle’s face.  Instead, he took another drink of his float. 

_ Focus on your future, Brawl. _

“It all worked out anyway,” he groaned, trying his hardest to get that anger right back down into the bottom of his tanks where it belonged.  “So what’s the bit deal?  And why’d you gotta interrupt  _ my _ life to tell me this anyway?  You coulda just left a message.  ‘Dear Brawl, you’re fighting Speed Demon on Quattorsol.’  That’s all you gotta do.”

“I don’t want that sort of correspondence sitting around on a commlink, just waiting to be discovered by border patrol – or worse, some hacker with dubious motives.  Don’t forget that what we’re doing is illegal, no matter how common a practice it is.  Enforcers may turn a blind optic, but if they catch that sort of explicit evidence, then the whole operation may well go under.  That’s why I prefer to meet you in person – up above is best, but clearly you don’t wish to cooperate with me on that front.”

He was being talked down to.  Brawl knew he wasn’t smart, but that didn’t mean Blast Off had to treat him like a complete idiot, whose thoughts and feelings were worth less than nothing.  His fingers squeezed around the cube in his hand, hard enough that he could hear the sturdy crystal began to crack.

“Don’t break that,” Blast Off ordered, voice flat as ever.  “They’re very expensive to replace.”

Brawl set the glass down, letting his hands fall into his lap, fingers squeezing around each other instead.  Blast Off just didn’t understand.

“Look, I’m sorry about that.  I wasn’t trying to blow you off.  But I – I was working too!”

“Were you now?”  Blast Off didn’t believe him.  His visor had twisted, face skewed upwards in a look of incredulity.  “And what, exactly, were you doing that could be considered work?”

Brawl thought back to Vortex’s words –  _ there _ was a smart mech, full of good ideas.  He was confident in the ideas that sweet mech had shared with him, more so than he ever could have been in his own thoughts.  “I was finding us an Underworld expert.”

Blast Off drew back, surprise written all over his face.   _ Finally _ , he proved he wasn’t the unflappable mech he liked to pretend to be.  “W-who asked you to do that?  I didn’t, and Onslaught sure as the Pit didn’t.”

“No one  _ asked _ me,” Brawl protested, feeling bolder at Blast Off’s loss of control.  “But we need one.  You and Onslaught don’t exactly got much knowledge of how things work down here, and I don’t either, even if I got more than you.  If we wanna win, we need someone what knows what he’s doing, right?  I don’t want you guys to cross the Trifecta again and get killed; I  _ like _ living on the surface.”

At first, Blast Off listened, his optics quirked, confused, but the longer Brawl spoke, the more he seemed to understand.  He stared at his empty cube, letting his brain slowly come to its conclusion.

_ And they call  _ me _ dumb! _

When Blast Off at last spoke, however, his tone was guarded.  “Brawl, who put this idea into your head?”

What?!  Why was he asking  _ that _ ?  Was it so hard to believe that Brawl had come up with something smart?  True, he  _ hadn’t _ , but Blast Off didn’t need to know that.  “What, I can’t be right about something for once?!  It’s a good idea, Blast Off!  And I got someone what can help us.”

Blast Off stiffened.  “Brawl,  _ please _ tell me you didn’t tell this mech anything important.”

_ “Relax, _ Blast Off.  I didn’t tell him about Onslaught or anything . . . I think.”  Had he?  He couldn’t remember.  He’d drank a lot that night, and it had already been a week.  It was hard to say for sure  _ what _ exactly had gone down, aside from some really great interface.  Blast Off’s wicked glare, however, demanded elaboration.  “I just – I met this guy at The Dancing Minibot.  He was really sweet, and really smart too.  Told off those afts who thought they could make fun of me just ‘cause I had to fake a loss, then offered to stay the night with me, free of charge!

“Oh Blast Off, I wish you could meet him!  We talked all the way home.  He asked me all these questions about me – no one’s ever cared enough before to ask questions about  _ me _ !  And he thought that we could use an Underworld expert, and I think he’s the one for the job.  If you met him, you’d understand.  He’s  _ perfect _ !”

Despite Brawl’s glowing recommendation, the look of mortification on Blast Off’s face hadn’t diminished.  “Brawl you idiot!  He was grilling you.  Nobody down here goes home with a stranger without some sort of ulterior motive!”  He buried his face in his hands, muttering at rapid speed.  “Primus, Primus, who was this guy?  How could he possibly have known – he must have found out you were connected to me, and me to Onslaught!  One of Ratbat’s mechs?  Oh frag, this is bad.”

Brawl narrowed his eyes.  “He’s not a spy!  His name is Vortex; he’s brilliant, beautiful, one of a kind!  If you met him, you’d understand.”

Blast Off was not convinced.  He continued muttering to himself.  “It’s okay.  Brawl didn’t know anything damning; we’re fine.  We’ll be fine.  Onslaught can get this all sorted out.  My comm was hacked, and nothing came of it; Brawl couldn’t have messed us up too much . . .  Primus, I have to tell Onslaught!”

“Excuse me,” Brawl snapped.  “Are you even listening?  Vortex is safe!  We can trust him.”

Blast Off shot a glare over his hands.  “Have you even been in contact with this guy since, what, last Unisol?”

Brawl froze.  No.  No, Blast Off was  _ not _ going to sully this for him.  “He likes me a lot!  He opened up to me  _ too _ , y’know!  Told me he’s an Untouchable.  How sad is that?!  Stuck in the Underground, no hope for a future.  I want to help him, Blast Off!”

“We’re not letting a complete stranger in on the plan.  Primus – and you stayed the night with him?  You were unconscious in the presence of a complete stranger?  Oh, this bad.”

“It’s not.”

“It  _ is _ !” 

The two probably could have gone on like that for hours, both stubbornly resolute in their opinions.  It was the sound of screaming that stopped them.  Muffled, from outside.  There were many screams wafting through the walls, compounded by the blaring of horns, the wailing of sirens, and even the occasional firing of a blaster – complete and utter chaos.

“What in Vector Sigma?”  Blast Off rose from his seat, regal, even in his haste, and strode back down the hall, leaving Brawl to scurry after.

“What is going on?” he demanded of the shopkeep, though his optics were fixed on that front window, watching mechs race about in a panic beyond it. 

“I don’t know,” was the startled reply.  “I been in here the whole time.  One moment everything’s fine, the next, folks is runnin’ about like Ratbat’s guard came down for a raid . . . Primus below, I really hope that ain’t it.  Can’t those ruffians find someone better to mess with?”

“You don’t know,” Blast Off echoed, inattentive like the apathetic aft he was. 

“That’s what I said!” she insisted.  “Ain’t gotten no comms, no news reports.  Everything’s chaos, and I don’t got a clue why.  Might bar up the shop, just in case.  Best be deciding in or out, boys.”

He’d expected Blast Off to choose ‘in.’  He was just the sort of prissy, cautious mech that wouldn’t want to be caught dead out amongst a panic like this.  But much to his surprise, his irritating companion marched out the door, leaving Brawl little choice but to follow.  He was at home in chaos anyway – had been forged for it.  The heat of battle was the only time he truly felt alive.

Not that this was quite on par with that particular situation. 

The mechs that scurried about were primarily civilians – tourists, mostly, all running away from the direction of the city center and District Nine.  None appeared injured; probably not an actual attack then. 

Up ahead, Blast Off was trying in vain to flag someone down for an explanation, but not one mech gave any consideration to his superior caste.  Some of them were probably Alphas themselves, come to think of it, not that Brawl was good at telling these things.  They were clean and sported unnecessary flourishes in their paint and on their frames; that was usually the sign of the upper class.

Frag it all, it was painful to see Blast Off failing so.  With minimal effort, he reached out, scooping a shiny Speedster from the ground by his spoiler, and hoisting him into the air, level with Blast Off’s disapproving stare.

“My friend here’s tryin’ a ask a question.  Stop yer panickin’ and fess up.”

The Speedster squirmed in his grasp, wide-eyed and crying.  “P-please don’t hurt me!” he moaned.  Yeesh, what an embarrassment.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Blast Off assured, grabbing hold of a finial and turning the pathetic creature’s face to meet his eyes.  “Forgive my associate’s . . . enthusiasm.  We’re simply trying to understand what is going on.”

“I – I don’t know!” the mech squeaked.  He’d at last given up on struggling, and hung limply in Brawl’s grasp.  “Someone died – some bigwig, I guess.  All I know is that the bots in the city center are rioting.  They’re smashing up property, attacking civilians, tourists, each other.  I – I don’t even know who it is that’s doing the attacking.  Nothing makes any sense.”

“Someone’s dead . . .” Blast Off mused, removing his hand from the Speedster’s head, and pressing it instead to his own chin. 

“Y-yeah!  Mod-racer or something?  I don’t know.”

“Modulator!”  Whenever Blast Off corrected Brawl, it was with smug impatience.  When he corrected  _ this _ mech, however, his tone was instead one of horror.  So what if Modulator was dead?  Yeah, he was a big deal, what with being part of the Trifecta and all, but was he really  _ that _ big a deal?  What was the point of rioting?

“I don’t know, sure!” the mech squeaked.  His optics kept drifting away, in the direction most of the crowd was fleeing in.  “Just – just please, let me go.  One of my friends works for Ratbat – he said that they’re closing off the Underground until the riot’s under control.  I want out of here before that happens.”  He began squirming again, and Brawl allowed him to fall to the ground and scamper away.  Blast Off looked like he was done talking for now anyway.  Instead, without a single word of warning, he took off, running for the nearest crossing point, to District Six, and Brawl, as usual, followed behind.

There was already a crowd by the time they arrived.  Mechs of the Alpha Caste all the way down to Epsilon were gathered at the gate, which was patrolled by an entire unit of heavily-armed War Frames – Tanks, Anti-Aircraft Gunners, Heavy Trucks, and even a trine of Seekers.  Nobody was passing through the gate.  Though most weren’t keen to sit around and accept it.

“Do you even know who I am?” a sleek red civilian-Seeker demanded.  “I am Flareblitz of Vos, a noble – Alpha Caste!  I demand that you let me cross this border this instant!”

The guards did not budge. 

“I don’t care who you are,” one of the armed Seekers said in kind.  “Senator Ratbat gave us his orders; not a soul is getting through this gate until the rioting stops.  Too easy for undesirables to get through unchecked at a time like this.”

Brawl glanced around.  He wouldn’t have recognized the Untouchables in the crowd, but he  _ did _ notice the Epsilons, most likely trying to take advantage of the chaos to make their way up top.

“Are you  _ serious _ ?!” Flareblitz snapped.  “I could have you arrested for this!  You cannot keep me from my home because of the riff raff.  Why not do your  _ jobs _ ?!”

The stupid Seeker should have seen the attack coming.  One of the tanks stepped forward, grabbed Flareblitz by the helm, and began to squeeze, until that sleek, polished metal crumpled beneath his hand.  He dropped the Seeker’s unmoving body to the ground; he did not get up.  Brilliant red plating began to fade to the grey of death.  The crowd fell silent.

“ _ No one _ gets through!” the Tank roared.  “Senator Ratbat has granted us permission to use lethal force to protect these borders if necessary.”

The military Seeker that had spoken up before stepped in again.  “There are plenty of hotels in the area.  Feel free to stay the night down here.  The gates should be up and operational by tomorrow morning.  In the meantime, no one gets through.”  He cocked the blaster in his hand, a warning, and the mechs nearest him, backed away.

A twinge of envy flared up in Brawl’s tanks.  He, like all of the discharged veterans, had ‘voluntarily’ disarmed his internal weapons when he’d reverted to a civilian life.  He couldn’t fire the cannon on his back; and nor could Onslaught, or any of the other veterans.  Their lot was not so easily intimidated by a handful of guards, but unarmed as they were, it seemed they had little choice but to comply.  Brawl wished that  _ he _ could be one of Ratbat’s personal guard, allowed to wield weapons even off the battlefield.  His tech specs just weren’t high enough for the position, even if he’d had the connections.  

“Err, looks like we’re stuck Blast Off,” he said, unsure of what else there was to do.  “What now?”

Blast Off wasn’t listening.  He was hunched over, one hand pressed to the side of his helm; he was comming someone.

“Yeah, it sounds like Modulator, the ruler of the Merchants’ Guild down here, was murdered . . . It’s madness.  Rioting in the streets – I can hear blasterfire in the distance . . . They won’t let us back up to the surface.  What should we do?”

Onslaught.  He was talking to Onslaught.  That was good; Onslaught would know how to get them home.  But there was no place for Brawl in the conversation.  He folded his arms as best as he could, and listened to the passing conversations as he waited for the magnificent plan his leader was sure to bestow upon them.

“He was assassinated, you know,” said one of the Epsilons to her friend.  “Modulator was.  I heard about it.  Catalyst had a mystery hit on his list – 50k shanix.  That’s a high profile target if I ever saw one.”

“But who would want Modulator dead that much?  Do you think Catalyst knew?  Or was he just in it for the money?”

The pair passed out of audial range before Brawl could hear the answer.  But more conversations came to fill the void.

“If Modulator’s dead, who’s gonna take his place?  You think the other two are gonna fight for his power?”

“What happens to the Coliseum after this?  I wanna see my Pit Fights; those aren’t going away, are they?”

“How could this have happened?  Why would anyone kill one of the Trifecta?  You’d have to be nuts to do something like that!”

“Brawl.”

Brawl jolted, whirling around with his fists out, ready to lay his attacker out on his back.  Lucky for him, Blast Off knew better than to get too close.  He watched Brawl’s clumsy blunder from just out of arm’s reach, his own arms folded behind his back in that regal, snooty way he had.

“S-sorry!” Brawl muttered.  “There’s uh – there’s a lot going on right now.”

“Yes,” Blast Off agreed.  “I’ve been told that the comm lines to Ratbat’s office have been temporarily suspended.  There’s nothing we can do about crossing the border tonight, though Onslaught thinks that Ratbat just committed political suicide with this action.  He’s already working out how to take advantage of this development.”

Brawl frowned behind his mask.  He didn’t know much about politics, nor did he care about them.  Onslaught couldn’t help them right now; they were stranded.  Why bother worrying about any of that other stuff?

“Not that any of this matters to you,” Blast Off sighed.

“Yeah, not really.”

“Figures.” 

They remained in place for a long moment, even as the crowds around them began to disperse.  Brawl was a large mech, and Blast Off wasn’t much smaller; neither would be moved in the flurry of frames, though why exactly they weren’t following the crowd was a mystery.  There was no reason to stay at the gate; Blast Off had said as much.  Why weren’t they leaving?

“So, uh, we goin’?”

Blast Off  _ still _ didn’t move.  “I’m thinking that, with how many bots have just found themselves stranded down here, those hotels are going to be jam-packed.  I imagine the owners will be jacking up the prices too.  I don’t suppose you know somewhere down here we could stay for the night?”

“I thought  _ you _ were the one with all the fancy connections,” Brawl retorted.  It was immature.  He didn’t care.  Blast Off deserved to have that indignant glare pasted across his obscured face.

“My connections are for matters of business only,” he said, remarkably even given the irritation flickering in his field.  “Save for that night that Rotary attacked me, I have had no need to stay the night in the Underground.  I do not know any locals who may be willing to put us up, though I suspect  _ you _ do.”

“Maybe,” Brawl said with a groan.  Of all the nights for this to happen, it had to be the night of his victory.  It was supposed to have been a night of carnal delight, but now he had Blast Off tagging along, unpleasant as ever.  No engex.  No interface.  Just boring, miserable business.

“I mean, it’s the Underground, so we’ll probably still have to pay, but there’s a pleasurebot I know what lives down in Miner’s Row who’s desperate for some credits.  We’re on okay terms; he’d probably put us up.”

Blast Off sneered at the word ‘pleasurebot’ – Alphas were weird about interface, connections, all that personal nonsense.  Brawl would never understand it, nor how that attitude had survived his three vorns in the military.  War Frames weren’t exactly a chaste lot either.  Death was part of their daily reality; who could blame them for seeking as much pleasure as possible before their time came?  It was the same in the Underground, only down here, everyone wanted to be paid for any pleasure they gave. 

Despite his obvious distaste, however, Blast Off didn’t complain.  “Very well.  Let’s find him and get out of here.”

~~~

They’d had to pay half a shanix to get a spot in Pinpoint’s house for the night.  The price was  _ way _ inflated – it wasn’t like Pinpoint was going to get any customers tonight; Brawl and Blast off were doing him a favor, but the hovel was still cheaper than any hotel, and word on the street was that the hotels had become so crowded, the managers were packing four to six mechs to a room, depending on size.  Half a shanix was a small price to pay for comfort.

Marginal comfort, at least.

Pinpoint and Brawl had lived in the same lot, before Brawl had joined his brethren up on the surface.  This house was much like his old: the ceiling was far too low for him to stand up straight – Blast Off fared better, with his lack of a turret, but even  _ he _ had to stoop to get through the doorways.  A single room made up the apartment, with a recharge slab tucked away in the corner that was far too small for Brawl or even Blast Off to fit on comfortably.  It didn’t matter; both had slept in worse conditions before.

An energon storage cabinet, half empty, sat beside the berth, with a few small, battery-like tubes, spent circuit boosters, lying haphazardly about the top shelf.  Most of the floorspace was empty, save for the random garbage – empty, disposable cubes, spilled additives, soiled cleaning rags; the place had no washracks.  The only luxury in the room was the worn holo-caster mounted on an empty wall, which was currently tuned in to the news, where a bot named Livewire was covering the events of the day, as well as  just what the enforcers had found out thus far (slag all). 

Blast Off and Brawl sat huddled together on the empty floor, knees tucked up to their chests in order to save on space.  At this negligible distance, Brawl could feel the disgust radiating through Blast Off’s field, but his Alpha upbringing wouldn’t allow him to comment on the mess, the drugs, the poverty, or even the rust infection, which had spread since Brawl had last seen Pinpoint, trailing down his throat, corroding the sensitive cables there.  As a result of the infection, Pinpoint spoke with a raspy rattle.

“I can’t believe he’s really dead,” he whispered, curled up on the recharge slab himself, watching the newscast like some shell-shocked veteran.  “He was meant to take my tithe today but . . . nothing.  Does that mean we don’t have to pay?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Blast Off sighed, slumping forward. 

Despite the brush off, Pinpoint continued to babble on, more for his own comfort than for any conversation.  “It’s all a conspiracy . . . that blasted Copter.  He did it, I bet – bad glitch, that one.  Bad, bad, bad glitch.”

Blast Off tensed, peering up towards the berth, fixing Pinpoint a curious stare.  Brawl too, couldn’t hide his surprise.  What was that about a Copter, now?  Had Pinpoint seen Vortex?

“I’m sorry, what are you babbling about?”

“The  _ Copter _ ,” Pinpoint insisted, as though it should be self-explanatory.  “The bad one.  From the Assassin’s guild – painted up like death.  He’s bad.  Very, very baaaaad.”

“Painted like death,” Blast Off repeated.  “Grey and teal?”

“Bad,” Pinpoint agreed.  “Yes.  Very bad.  I saw him last night.  At the Oasis.”

Brawl shook his head.  “You don’t mean Vortex?”

“Vortex?” Pinpoint mused.  “Maybe.  I don’t know his name.  He doesn’t tell most folks his name.  I just know I’ve seen him.”

“Vortex . . . is the grey and teal hitman,” Blast Off said, slowly.

“Yes, sure, the hitman.  He’s a hitman.  I’ve seen him off a lot of empties.  And biggies too.  In dark alleys.  No one believes me, ‘cause I’m crazy – but Copters is bad folk.  Always in the dark alleys.   _ You _ ,” Pinpoint pointed at Brawl, a red light shining from the tip of his finger, “went home with him the other night, after I warned you not to.  Can’t go home with them Copters.  They’re baaaaad.”

“Are you quite alright?” Blast Off asked, sitting up straighter.

“I’m fine,” he nodded.  “My throat hurts, but I’m fine.  Brawl’s not fine.  He did something to you.  I know he did something to you.  He never lets his targets go.”

Brawl narrowed his eyes, lunging forward, in an effort to shut up that scrawny idiot, though Blast Off’s bulky frame got in the way.  The pair tumbled across the floor, Brawl atop poor angry Blast Off, who struggled and yowled like a mech about to die.  Brawl ignored him.

“You’re thinking about someone else,” Brawl growled.  “Vortex is great!  He cares about me.  You got the wrong guy.” 

A heavy shove from Blast Off had Brawl rolling to the ground, his turret nearly taking out the holo-caster.  Pinpoint glared.  “I know what I saw.  That grey Copter, the bad one – at the Oasis last night.  He was flirting with some jeep – um, the merchant.”

“Swindle,” Blast Off supplied.  “Purple and gold paintjob?  Big optics.  I’ve had some business with him before.”

Pinpoint nodded.  “Yes, yes.  With the big optics.  He was there too, but he wasn’t there for business.  It’s weird.  The merchant is always up for business, but not last night.”

“It’s someone else,” Brawl repeated, crawling up to his knees with some effort.  This time, his turret, did hit the caster, causing the image to flicker and turn grey.  Hey paid it no mind.  Who cared about the news at a time like this?  “Vortex said he’d come and find me.  And he meant it.  We connected.  He told me his story; he cares.”

“Brawl,” Blast Off warned.  The warning was useless.  The more Brawl heard, the more sense everything made, the more he struggled to hold onto the magic of that one night.  One night.  A single measly night to find real meaning in this Primus-forsaken hellhole.  Blast Off never could have understand what it was like; he was too well off.  And Pinpoint was too fargone.  Vortex had meant every word he said.  He must have.  Brawl didn’t want to so much as consider the alternative.

“But he didn’t leave with the merchant,” Pinpoint continued, scurrying across the floor to adjust the holo-caster screen.  “No  – he wasn’t moving when he left.  Had to get carried out.  Dual-clocking; even I’m not that dumb.  I think it was dual-clocking.  He was so gone.  Good riddance.”  He nodded, giving the projector a smack; the image righted itself.  

That sounded worrisome.  “He wasn’t . . . moving?” Brawl whispered.  “He wasn’t . . . I mean, he’s okay, right?”

Pinpoint’s amber optics fixed themselves on Brawl, condescending despite their lack of focus.  “How should I know?  I didn’t follow him.  I’m not so stupid to follow him.  But he didn’t leave with the merchant, no  – not the merchant.”  He sat back on the berth, staring at the ceiling, instead of the screen he’d put all that effort into fixing.

“Okay, then who?” Blast Off pressed.  Brawl wasn’t sure why  _ he _ was so invested in this.  Blast Off didn’t know Vortex; he had no reason to care.

Pinpoint shrugged.  “I don’t know his name.  One of Modulator’s accountants?  I thought maybe the bad Copter was in some debt and was trying to cheat his way out of it, but now . . . He was flirting with the merchant, he went home with the accountant, Modulator turns up dead the next day.  I think they were all in on it!”

It was stupid  –  some theory only a mech as divorced from reality as Pinpoint could come up with.  Why would Vortex kill Modulator?  Why would he leave with Modulator’s accountant?  And even if he had, who was to say he had any choice in the matter?  Pinpoint himself had said he wasn’t moving!  He’d been abducted!  He was in  _ trouble _ !  Primus!  Vortex was in trouble, and Brawl was wasting time here chatting about conspiracy theories.

“Calm yourself.”  Blast Off’s icy words should have incited further anger, but somehow, they did the trick.  He’d been halfway to his feet, stomping towards the berth, ready to knock the truth into that lying liar.  Blast Off had brought him back to his senses.  He collapsed to his knees, fists clenched tightly.

“He’s lying.  Vortex has nothing to do with Modulator’s death.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I  –  I just  _ am _ , okay?  You don’t know him like I do!  You’ve never even met him!  Trust me, he’s a good guy!  We want him on our side!  He can help us!”

A heavy sigh escaped Blast Off’s vents.  “Who knows what happened?  I don’t.  You don’t, or you,” he nodded towards Pinpoint.  “Even the enforcers don’t have any clues just yet.  It’s pointless to fight over it.  Let’s just get some rest.  We’ll sort this all out if and when we have to.  No more talk of your Vortex, or Modulator, or whatever you think may or may not have happened.  Understood?”

He was a smug, haughty aft, but Brawl didn’t mind obeying this once.  Pinpoint too, seemed to agree, offering a shrug before flopping over on his ragged berth, his spindly legs curled up against his chest.  Brawl was glad for it.  Had he been forced to sit there and listen to this lunatic badmouth his precious Vortex even a few seconds longer, surely he would have lost it.  Nobody understood, and they wouldn’t until they met Vortex for themselves . . .

That wasn’t a half bad idea.

“Brawl, turn off the holo-caster.  I can’t sleep with that racket.”  It was a lie.  Blast Off could sleep through all sorts of terrible things; it was a byproduct of a life on the frontlines.  But Brawl obeyed anyway, twisting around to disable the power of the device.  It flickered off, leaving the room in darkness, the orange of Brawl’s optics, and the indigo of Blast Off’s providing the only light.  Pinpoint had already disabled his own; his EM field dulled the the soft buzz of recharge.  They were, for all intents and purposes, alone.

“I’m right,” Brawl muttered, slumping over to lie on his side, his back to Blast Off.

“Brawl.”  The growl once again, did nothing to dissuade him.

“Vortex is right too.  We need someone who knows about this Underworld stuff  – even  _ I  _ can see that.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?”

“Just . . . tell Onslaught for me, okay?  About what Vortex said?”

For a long moment, Blast Off didn’t respond.  Brawl thought he might have forced shutdown, to avoid having to answer, but eventually he heard the heavy expulsion of air from those massive vents.  “Very well.  If that is what it takes to get you to shut up about him, I’ll tell Onslaught.  It’s best he knows everything that happens, anyway . . .”  He sounded strangely thoughtful, though Brawl couldn’t say why.  Perhaps he was finally warming up to the idea.  Brawl hoped so.

He needed somebody else to believe in Vortex.  It was the only way he could keep clinging to the happy lie.

No.  

Not a lie.

Onslaught would come around.  Blast Off and Pinpoint would be eating their words.  And he and Vortex would be together.  He just needed to have faith.  

 


	7. Middle-Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onslaught has to pick up the pieces of last night's catastrophe. It might work out for him yet, however.

“At twelve of seven this morning, the barricades between Upper and Lower Kaon were finally withdrawn, allowing hundreds of stranded surface dwellers to finally return home.  The barricades were erected last night at cycle seventeen after riots broke out in Districts Eight, Nine, and Ten upon the discovery of the death of Modulator, a gamma caste entrepreneur of Kaon Heights, a top leader of the Underworld mafia.  At sixteen of seventeen the KDF was deployed to quell the rioting, resulting in seventy-six arrests and seven casualties.

“Amongst those casualties was Flareblitz an alpha caste ambassador of Vos, who, according to his trine, was Underground to participate in the popular, and illegal activity of gambling on gladiator duels.  Eyewitnesses say that he was murdered by border patrol with no warning, for protesting the unannounced closure that left him, and others stranded for the night. 

“The effect this assassination will have between the polities of Vos and Kaon is unclear as of this time.  At his press conference this morning to address the closure, Senator Ratbat had this to say:”

The image of the pretty teal newsbot vanished, replaced with something far less pleasant.  Senator Ratbat was a small mech, though you wouldn’t have guessed that by watching the broadcast.  His podium was likely set upon a platform, that allowed the miniscule senator to tower over his attendants.  He had a cruel face – flawless in the way only money could buy, with a glistening silver finish lined in cyan, to bring out the unnatural green of his optics.  His plating was flourished and graceful, with unnecessary additions that made determining his alt mode impossible.  It was painted up in a glimmering indigo – but not just any indigo.  The pigment had been commissioned specifically by Senator Ratbat; no other mechs had this exact shade of indigo anywhere about their frame.  Lime biolights finished his gaudy look.

Onslaught sneered, clutching his untouched cube of energon between angry fingers, and hoping none of his companions noticed his slip in poise.  He hated everything about the self-important little fop on the holo-caster, who eagerly sent good mechs out to die while he sat in his crystal tower playing dress-up.  Watching his attempt to brush off the political disaster of last night would be a delightful exercise in schadenfreude. 

“I stand before you today with a heavy spark,” he said.  “The tragedy of last night was unforeseeable, and unacceptable.  I apologized to Vos, for the tragic loss of one of their finest nobles.  However, while I do find my actions regrettable, I also feel they were necessary.

“It should be noted that gambling is illegal and travel between Upper and Lower Kaon has been discouraged for vorns; Lower Kaon is not safe, a fact that many of us on the surface take for granted.  The lower castes are simply incapable of maintaining any sense of civility, and with the return of the war frames in such great number, it was only a matter of time before violence broke out.  I deeply regret that I did not see it coming; we have lived in stability for so long.

“It was a difficult decision that I made last night; and I assure you that I did not do so lightly.  Closing off the border was rash, and put several valuable members of our community in danger.  However, as your leader, it is my job to make difficult decisions.  If that riot had been allowed to spread to the surface, many more lives would have been lost, all for the safety of a few hundred mechs who, I must remind you, were not supposed to be down there in the first place.

“From here on in, I intend to maintain tighter control on our borders, going  _both_  ways, and I will take efforts to curb some of the lawlessness that has become characteristic of Lower Kaon.  We will learn from the events of last night, and move forward, with our heads held high, as all Kaonites do.”

What a load of rubbish.  Harsher border laws were fine in theory, but the guards were easily bribed, and depending on the fallout caused by the death of the Vosian ambassador, the average border guard wouldn’t dare attack another noble.  Very little would change on that front, at least for the upper castes.  As for the lower castes who commuted between the districts for work . . . that was another issue.  Legally, Ratbat couldn’t stop them – yet.  If he tried, there was little Onslaught could do to protest; it was a worrying prospect.  His business depended on the mobility of those veterans for a not-insignificant portion of its profits, not to mention Brawl’s coliseum winnings. 

There was also the matter of enforcing the Underground lawlessness.  How would that manifest?  Would Ratbat shut down the coliseum?  Onslaught doubted it.  There were too many nobles (Ratbat included) who used the pit fights as a means of profound, untraceable income.  Blackjack’s gambling license was a small price to pay for the untaxable funds. 

Then again, with the death of Modulator, nothing about the Underground was certain anymore.  It was frustrating to run into such a hurdle, after his plan had been going so well for the better part of the last year.  He wanted to focus his attentions on expansion, on dipping into new fields, on further solidifying his hold on his Upper Kaon pursuits.  What he did not want to do was waste another year fooling around in the Underground while the instability sorted itself out.  It was only a matter of time before Senator Ratbat tried to pass some other malicious piece of legislature designed to keep Onslaught, and those like him, down where he claimed they belonged. 

Of course, this wasn’t all bad.  No matter how right he may have been to contain the riot, at the risk of a handful of idiotic nobles, the fact remained that he had sacrificed many of his own political allies in order to do so.  He was in a very precarious position right now, and already, Onslaught was working out a way to take advantage of it.

 “I give him another year at most,” laughed Highline at Onslaught’s side, taking a swig of his high grade.  “’It is my job to make the difficult decisions’!  Primus, I wouldn’t want to be in his plating right now.”

“It’s no laughing matter,” hissed Twist, from her seat across the long table.  “We still don’t know how Vos will respond to the murder of their dignitary.  This could spell war between our nations!”

“At least it would give our returning war frames something to do, eh?” Pitch caught the poisonous glare Onslaught shot her, and gave a nervous chuckle.  “I mean, no offense, Onslaught.  You’re doing a great job, getting them settled and everything.  Never thought I’d see a war frame capable of such civilized behavior.”

At the head of the table, Thunderquake took a sip of his own high grade, and shook his head, wisely not stepping into the conversation.

Onslaught hated them all, but they were valuable connections to maintain, and so he let their ill-thought insults and mockery slide.  None were exactly the sort of financial powerhouse that Onslaught  _really_  wanted to be on good terms with, but they were Alphas and Betas nonetheless, all operating successful businesses in the same tower as Onslaught.  Any one of them had more contacts to exploit than Onslaught and Blast Off combined; it was important to keep their relationships friendly.

He’d taken to arranging weekly luncheons with his building-mates, an idea that had been met initially, with reluctance, but had quickly become a much looked forward to tradition.  Pitch provided the high grade.  Thunderquake provided the venue.  Highline provided the humor, and Twist, working as liaison to a handful of embassies, occasionally provided a guest of honor or two.  Today she had none, though Onslaught didn’t blame her for it.

“I am grateful that you are able to see past my frame and caste, Pitch.  It is my greatest goal, in life.”  The words sickened him to say, but his tone remained pleasant nonetheless.  Pitch laughed again, her wings giving a nervous twitch.  She seemed to see right through his polite façade, but was too embarrassed to comment on it.

Highline was quick to save her.  “So, Onslaught.  You’re the military mastermind.  Do  _you_  think a war will break out?”

Onslaught shook his head.  “I think Senator Ratbat is smart enough to try and appease Senator Ramjet.  They’ll come to a diplomatic agreement, I have no doubt.  If Kaon and Vos go to war, it would violate the Treaty of Iacon; both polities would be removed from the alliance, and that would lead to a catastrophic loss of resources and funding.  Vos might survive it, but Kaon would not.  It’s in our senator’s best interest to cater to their whims.”

“That’s a relief,” Twist sighed.  “I can’t talk about the specifics, but it’s been a really stressful night.”

“No doubt.”  Onslaught wondered what he’d have to do to get her to break her non-disclosure agreement and talk specifics.  Having a government leak would do him wonders.

“I’m right about his career though, right?” Highline pressed.  “There’s no way the senator can survive a blunder like this.  Turning his back on his  _friends_?  Bad move.”

“That, I am less sure about.”  As it was, it would be very difficult for Ratbat to make a recovery by the time of the next election.  He was as good as out, if not dead.  But Onslaught couldn’t help but feel there was a very real opportunity here to further his own cause by furthering Ratbat’s.  Getting into the good graces of such a powerful mech, or further, making himself  _indispensable_ , would secure his own position up top.  He had no doubt he could outmaneuver Ratbat if given the chance.  The only issue was maneuvering  _himself_  into the position to do so.

“Stop yammering,” Thunderquake rumbled.  “I’m trying to watch Livewire.”

Again, that pretty teal mecha was back on screen, interviewing a few of the locals and strandees about the events of the previous night.  They didn’t provide Onslaught with any information that Blast Off hadn’t already told him.  He much rather would have kept talking the future, but Thunderquake ran the local news station, and Livewire was his favorite protégé.  There was no talking allowed when she was on screen.  He rested his chin on heavy arms, blue eyes locked on the wall-spanning holo-caster.

Onslaught rose to his feet. 

“Goin’ somewhere?” Pitch’s amber optics were locked on him.  Of all the mechs in this tower, she was the one least capable of getting past her own mistrust of war frames.  It didn’t matter to Onslaught.  She was nowhere near his equal in intellect.

“I’ve got an appointment with my partner at the thirteenth cycle.  I apologize for dipping out early, but he’s not the sort who likes to be kept waiting.  You understand.”

Twist nodded, her finials bouncing with enthusiasm.  “Good luck then.  I’ll comm you some news updates as they come up.”

“I appreciate that.  Enjoy your meal.”  Onslaught backed out of the office, sliding the doors shut behind him.  He did not drop his reverent, careful posture, however.  He had appearances to maintain at all times.  Only in the privacy of his own home did he allow himself a moment to relax, and even then, there wasn’t much relaxing done.  The idea of not appearing perfect, poised, and well-kept filled him with more anxiety than it was worth.  Anyone could be watching.  He was a target; there was a non-zero chance that the senator had planted cameras in his home, just waiting for him to show his barbarous war frame self to the world.  Onslaught couldn’t take the risk.

He arrived back in his own office well before Blast Off arrived.  He’d evidently stayed with one of Brawl’s local friends last night, to best avoid dealing with crowds of angry nobles.  And he’d opted to hang back for most of the morning for much the same reason.  Blast Off was not the sort of mech that enjoyed the company of others; it was likely part of a Space Shuttle’s deep coding.  They were built for isolation; it was a miracle, the things Blast Off was willing to put up with for Onslaught’s sake.

They’d arranged the rendezvous after Blast Off finally made it back up to the surface, giving him just enough time to drop a troublesome Brawl off in District Four (just in case the borders closed again), and return to his own condo in District One to clean up, before the meeting.  Despite this, he arrived half a cycle late.

“I apologize,” he said, once he finally strode through the door, arms folded behind his back and voice apathetic.  “Brawl was misbehaving most of the morning.  It took more time than anticipated to get him to stay put.”

Onslaught didn’t really care all that much.  He’d left his afternoon open, unsure just how long Blast Off’s debriefing and his own subsequent strategizing would take.  It displeased him to hear that Brawl was being disobedient, however.  Brawl had always been so good at following orders in the past; why would that change now?  Surely he wasn’t so upset about being barred from the surface for the night?  It wasn’t the first time he’d stayed in the Underground since his move.  How strange.

“I look forward to hearing your tale, in more detail this time, perhaps.  Do take a seat, help yourself to some high grade.”  He poured a cube from the chalice on his desk, and pushed it towards Blast Off, who slid into the client chair, adjusting the height to better suit his tall frame, and took a sip.

“It feels like ages since I’ve had proper high grade,” he sighed, content.  “Protihex 98, correct?”

“I admire your way of identifying high grades by taste alone,” Onslaught smiled, pouring a cube for himself as well.  He wasn’t hungry after the luncheon, but it was rude to make a mech drink alone.

Blast Off shrugged, “It’s something I picked up at the academy.  Spent a lot of time with my snooty classmates going to tasting parties.  In retrospect, it all seems rather frivolous.”  He contemplated his cube sadly, broad fingers stroking its edges, as though seeking comfort.  “It’s amazing what a little perspective can give you.”

“I agree.”  Onslaught nodded, folding his own hands in front of him, his cube ignored.  “There are so many trivialities of your world that I still get wrong.  But I am learning, and my neighbors have been . . . patient.”

“You speak so formally,” Blast Off mused.  “You really have been spending a lot of time with the upper crust.  But I always liked your blunt passion.  Dancing around the issue at hand is such an Alpha thing to do.  Is it any wonder nothing ever gets accomplished?”  He let out a soft, bitter laugh.

It was a nice opening for what Onslaught really wanted to talk about.  “Speaking of, about last night?”

Blast Off slumped forward, resting his helm on the desk.  Onslaught may have learned dignity from all his time spent with the Alphas and Betas, but it seemed that Blast Off was going in the opposite direction.  “Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“What happened?”

Without sitting up, Blast Off shifted positions, resting his chin on his hands, and staring morosely at the half-empty cube in front of him.  “In terms of the major, probably nothing you don’t already know.  I went down to watch Brawl’s fight.  I had a meeting scheduled for later in the evening (which I missed, by the way), but I figured I’d give Brawl his next assignment while I was there.  He missed our last meeting, you know?”

“I wonder if Brawl is reliable enough to be of further assistance.  Perhaps we were wrong to invest in him.”  Onslaught pressed a hand to his lips, thoughtfully.  Blast Off merely snorted.

“Oh believe me, that’s the least of our issues with Brawl.”  He buried his face again and mumbled something incoherent.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Blast Off sighed, then forced himself to sit up once again, this time slouching against the chair’s back.  “I called him a horny, love-struck fool.”

That . . . sounded ominous.  Onslaught had never expected Brawl, of all mechs, to fall in love, but he could easily see how doing so could jeopardize the mission.  Brawl was not a subtle mech, was dangerously single-minded, and far too naïve to know what was good for him.  It wasn’t hard to imagine just what had happened, though he didn’t dare assume. 

Blast Off continued.  “We met at a friend’s shop, I told him off for his behavior, he protested, next thing I know, there’s mass hysteria out on the streets.  Found out about Modulator and the rioting, and one of the passerby had heard that Ratbat was closing off the gates, so Brawl and I rushed to get out, but we were too late.  Actually saw them off some noble from Vos.  Primus, it was messed up.”

“Right, you mentioned that.  Did anything else important happen last night?  Or was that it?”

A wan smile broke out on Blast Off’s face, and he reached for his cube, downing the rest in one go.  “Primus, I could use some engex.  I think I’m developing a habit.”  He shook his head with a bitter chuckle.  “Nothing world-shattering happened to us specifically, but some information came to light that has me worried.”

“Yes?”

“You recall that hitman I told you about?  The one who hacked my comm and was siphoning information from me for weeks?”

Onslaught hesitated, fingers at last inching towards his cube.  Oh, he recalled.  He’d been furious to find that Blast Off, the most competent, trustworthy mech he had at his disposal, had allowed himself into such a position in the first place.  He should have known better.  “I take it he’s still alive.”

“Ohh,” Blast Off snorted, “Not only is he alive, but he managed to seduce Brawl last week; now Brawl thinks that they’re soul mates.  Won’t hear a single word against the guy, let alone accept the fact that he got played.”

Yes.  This was a good moment to down his cube.  Screw manners.

“Brawl . . . fell in love . . . with a hitman.”  Onslaught wiped the remaining fuel from his lips with the back of his hand.  It was undignified.  He didn’t care.

“Seems the guy hit Brawl with the same pitch he tried to give me as well.  The whole ‘you need an expert in Underground affairs, and who better than I to help you?’”  He threw an arm over his optics with a groan.  “I don’t know  _why_  this little aft wants in with us so badly, but please don’t tell me I’m wrong to mistrust him.”

Onslaught thought it over.  He’d never met this mech; had only Blast Off’s word to go on.  But even if the mech was serious in his desire to ally himself with Onslaught’s cause, he’d proven himself dangerous, manipulative, and incapable of following orders.  He was a liability already; there was no way Onslaught would employ such a loose cannon.  “You made the right decision.”

“There was one more thing.”

“Yes?”  Onslaught eyed his increasingly stressed companion warily.  Perhaps he really  _had_  been spending too much time in the Underground.  It was clearly starting to wear on him.

“I’m not sure how much stock to put in this – I heard it from Brawl’s friend, who is a little . . . he didn’t seem to be entirely there.”

“But you believe it’s worth noting?”

“I may be paranoid,” Blast Off sighed, “but it seemed too plausible to ignore.”

“Go on.”

“Brawl’s friend said that he’d seen our Rotary leaving a certain club last night with one of Modulator’s accountants – seemed convinced that the two of them had schemed together to orchestrate the downfall of Modulator.  Another of my Underground contacts, a merchant, may have been involved as well.”

It was merely speculation – nothing to get too worked up over.  And yet, if Brawl’s friend was right, well, this Rotary was about to become a major thorn in Onslaught’s side.  It would be folly to leave it unchecked. 

He poured another cube for first Blast Off, and then himself.  “This is . . . troubling, if it’s true.”

“Seems an understatement to me,” Blast Off groaned, taking a swig of his newly-refilled high grade.  “You haven’t met this – Vortex, I believe Brawl called him, though I have no idea if that’s actually his name.  The mech is unhinged, and scarily competent, it would seem.  I shot him in the chest – he should have died!  I just . . .” he trailed off, looking down at the soft pink glow of his cube.  “Primus, we didn’t need this to happen to us.  What luck.”

“It’s our own fault,” Onslaught muttered, his mind already working on a solution.  “We stepped into an arena we knew nothing about.  It’s a rookie mistake, I should have had you scout the Underground before making any decisions.  Desperation caused us to take shortcuts . . .”  And that was the answer, wasn’t it?  “We won’t make the same mistake again.”

Blast Off glanced up, wearing a skeptical grimace.  “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I  _was_  going to have you look into a way to get me alone with Senator Ratbat,” Blast Off perked up at that, a thoughtful gleam in his optic.  “But this takes precedence.  For all I know, this Vortex is in with Ratbat, just waiting for an opportunity to tear me down.  I can’t take any chances.”

“So that means . . .?”

“I want you to squeeze your contacts for information about this mech – pay them if you have to.  Just find out what you can about our Rotary problem.  What he wants.  Who he works for.  Any potential weaknesses.  I want this problem resolved.

“Understood,” Blast Off nodded, his shoulders slumping.  Onslaught could imagine his disappointed thoughts,  _‘More Underground work.  Wonderful._   It was a waste of an Alpha mech’s talents, but hopefully the day would come when he’d no longer have to send Blast Off down under to do his dirty work.  Despite how little he trusted this mystery Rotary, he couldn’t deny that the mech had a point.  Having a Lower Kaon insider to handle their Underground affairs would prove invaluable.  If only the lot of them weren’t so damn untrustworthy.

“Oh, and Onslaught?”

“Yes?”

“About your other problem.  It may not be exactly what you’re after, but it could help you get close to Ratbat.”

“I’m listening.”

Blast Off drummed his fingers against the table, one hand pressed to his chin, as though trying to chase down long-lost memories.  “I’ve met Senator Aileron of Altihex exactly twice in my life.  The second time was when she came to give a speech for the draftees, but the first was at a charity gala.  Traditionally, all manner of celebrities attend these events; it’s a prime publicity stunt for a senator, particularly one so desperately in need of saving face as Ratbat is.  You might consider trying to put one on yourself, if you want to meet him in person.  It won’t be cheap, and he may hesitate if the invite has  _your_  name on it, but I’m sure you can figure something out, if the idea appeals to you at all.”

A charity gala . . . Ratbat aside, it wouldn’t be a bad publicity stunt for his own affairs either.  It was definitely worth entertaining the notion.  “Thank you Blast Off.  Your experiences prove valuable as ever.  I shall look into it right away.  And do tell me what you’re able to find out about our Rotary the moment you know.”

“Of course,” Blast Off nodded, absently.  “I shall begin first thing tomorrow, if you don’t mind.  After last night, I’d rather stay out of the Underground, at least for today.  I  _still_  feel grime caught between my seams.”

Onslaught saw no reason to deny him that.  He gave Blast Off the rest of the day off.  He didn’t know how the mech would spend it, nor did he care.  As far as Onslaught was concerned, Blast Off’s personal life was Blast Off’s business alone.  Unlike Brawl, he trusted Blast Off not to make a royal mess of everything . . . speaking of:

There was no way around it; he was going to have to contact Brawl.  If Blast Off was to be believed, that idiot was head over heels for Onslaught’s second greatest threat.  Nothing short of a direct order from his superior officer would resolve the issue.  He didn’t like the idea of leaving his frequency in Brawl’s incapable hands, or risking the discovery of their connection at the border, but at this point, he had little choice.  Brawl needed to be dealt with.

He shot Brawl a quick comm, hoping against hope that his own encryptions were enough to protect his identity.  Then, it was straight into research for his primary scheme.  He had a gala to plan, a senator to woo, an assassin to throw off, an unruly subordinate to rein in, and a business to run.  It was a lot to manage, but if anyone could handle it, it was Onslaught.


	8. Deal or No Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The economic upheaval in Lower Kaon has put a damper on Swindle's business interests.

This was getting absurd.  Two weeks.  It had been two weeks, and Vortex hadn’t moved an inch, at least as far as Swindle could tell.  He was passed out on the sofa when Swindle left for work in the morning, he was lethargically watching the holo-caster, or mocking the lileth, or reading a datapad, all from the sofa, when Swindle came home in the evening.  Swindle had entered into the arrangement with the understanding that Vortex was going to be doing his fair share of the legwork, but it seemed this was a bit much to hope for.

“Primus Swin, can’t a guy get a little rest after destabilizing all of Lower Kaon?” he groaned when pressed.

“I’ve been patient with you, but I can’t do this alone.  You’ve had two weeks to lay low and recover from . . . whatever the frag it was you did to yourself this time.  It’s time you started helping out.  I can’t make this comm on my own here.  Least of all in  _ this _ climate.”

He should have known better than to ask  _ Vortex _ to get rid of Modulator.  He’d gone for the kill (somehow.  Swindle still didn’t know the details, and didn’t care to find out) without thinking of the repercussions.  There was no one around to collect merchant taxes now, true, but the exchange was a power vacuum that every noteworthy mech in Lower Kaon, Catalyst and Blackjack included, had rushed in to fill.

The result was complete and utter chaos.  The Assassins Guild was taking out more hits than ever, and in turn, finding themselves the subject of backlash.  Stricter regulations from District Zero had crippled traffic between Upper and Lower Kaon, disrupting the trade cycle, taking away hundreds of potential buyers, and raising the prices on his ring of smugglers.  Fan-freaking-tastic.

Even amongst his regulars, nobody was eager to buy, for fear of needing to spend their hard-earned money on bribes with trigger-happy assassins, or border patrol, and Swindle too, was reluctant to sell.  Mechs who appeared too eager to fill the void left by Modulator typically found themselves axed.  He was going to play it safe for now, at least until Blackjack managed to get Catalyst under control.  Even factoring in the thousands he saved in taxes, these had been some of the least profitable weeks of Swindle’s career.

Vortex had more varied connections than Swindle, which would have been nice to take advantage of at a time when money was so valuable, and yet so useless.  And yet, here he was, lazing his days away on Swindle’s sofa.  It was getting to be a hassle.

“Oh c’mon Swin, I gave you that data cube, didn’t I?”

Swindle pinched the bridge of his nasal guard, as though he could hold back the impending outburst, and it worked.  It was with a calm charm that he said, “No Vortex.  No you didn’t.”

Vortex sat up, cocking his head.  “No?  Are you sure?”

“Yes Vortex.  You said you were going to put it together for me two weeks ago.  I’ve been following up every day, and every day you say either, ‘It’s not ready,’ ‘What are you talking about?’ or you’re passed out and unresponsive.  I swear, if you don’t come through soon, I’m going to add that million shanix back on for failure to abide by the contract.”

Vortex waved off his concerns.  “Sorry Swin, I forgot, that’s all.  Give a guy a break.”

“Yes, you’ve said that too,” Swindle griped, hands on his hips.  “I’m still waiting.”

“Okay, okay.”  Vortex rolled his optics behind his visor, and reached behind his back, presumably to dig around in his subspace.  When his hand moved back into Swindle’s line of sight, it was holding a small cube, glowing blue, with golden ports encrusting its top plane.  “Here we are, buddy.  Here’s one fabricated history for you to program in, a list of contacts, a call log, and also all of the data I managed to mine from those hacked Delta comms, just in case you find something that doesn’t add up.”  Without warning, he tossed the cube, leaving Swindle to fumble to catch it.

“Primus, be careful!  These things are made of Meridian Lunar Crystal!  That stuff doesn’t come cheap!”  That was the merchant in him talking.  It was Vortex’s cube; he shouldn’t have cared what Vortex did with it.  And yet, he couldn’t just stand by and not call out such behavior.

“My mistake,” Vortex laughed, completely uncaring.  He probably hadn’t paid for the thing anyway.  Aft.

Swindle examined the cube, his modified eyes zooming in on every surface detail for any damage, and then running a quick systems scan, to make sure there were no obvious viruses waiting to try and hack his own systems.  Not that Swindle’s firewalls were so flimsy as to be hackable.

“I didn’t do anything to it Swin.  C’mon, don’t you trust me?”

No.  Swindle did not.  But once satisfied, he extended a cable from his wrist and plugged into the cube, allowing the data to upload onto his storage drive.  The transfer was slow, bogged down by the sheer size of it all.  It took seven kliks for the information to properly take root in its new home, at which point, the cube went dead in his hands, fading from spark-blue to deathly grey.  He unplugged his cable and placed the spent cube in his own subspace – he could redeem it later.

“So?  Is that sufficient for you?”

Swindle did a quick scan of the new data, making sure it included everything Vortex had promised.  “Where’s the sparkprint?”

“What?”

“The  _ sparkprint _ ,” Swindle repeated.  “You said that you already existed in the government’s database, which will make it much easier to make this thing look legit.  It’s for your own good.”

“Did I really promise that?”  Vortex rubbed the back of his head, a strangely upset look on his mask-obscured face. 

“Do I have to show you the contract?”

Vortex shook his head, a touch hastily.  “No, no.  I believe you.  Not sure why I said I’d do that, but,” his shoulders lifted in a shrug.  “Half of that week is a blur, to be honest.”  His optics narrowed in a fond smile.  “Primus, but it was fun.”

Disgusting.  “I don’t need the details of your hedonistic lifestyle.  I just need your sparkprint.”

And then, Vortex did something Swindle never thought he’d live to see.  He shied away, arms folded over his chest, protectively.  What was all that about?  Did he even realize he was doing it?

“You know I’m not asking you to  _ bond _ , right?”  It was a joke, though Vortex didn’t seem very amused.

“Oh, I’ll bond with you anytime, Swin,” he snapped back, then averted his optics, as though realizing his slip in attitude.  Humor couldn’t cover up the fact that Vortex, for once in his life, was legitimately antsy.  How curious.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass.”

Vortex didn’t so much as snort his amusement.  “It’s sensitive information,” he confessed.  “If it gets out, I’ll deal with it, but I admit, I’m not too keen on it getting out at all.”

“What a suspicious thing to say.”  Already, Swindle was calculating a price to sell the information at.  How much money was worth risking Vortex’s wrath for?  Twenty thousand?  Fifty thousand?  One hundred thousand?  Probably more.  The Copter could be damn scary when he was angry.

Vortex huffed.  “Fine, you want it, take a scan!  Run it against the government database.  And then, for the love of Primus, put ‘me’ somewhere else.  A military grunt, a medic – I don’t give a slag.”  He’d already begun unlocking his chest before he’d finished speaking, gears whirring and joints clicking as his plating and internal mechanisms retracted, revealing his spark chamber for Swindle’s viewing pleasure.

Ordinarily, this would have been an incredibly intimate moment.  Only lovers, doctors, and killers got the privilege of seeing another mech’s spark, and Swindle was neither a doctor nor a killer.  Still, there was nothing tender in his movements as he marched forward, reaching out to pin Vortex’s arms to the sofa, so that he could lean his head in close and take a clean scan.

“Ooh, you know you can be more rough with me than that,” Vortex murmured, the natural smarminess in his voice once more.  Swindle opted to ignore him.

Unsatisfied, he spoke again, this time with an innocent, nervous tone.  “Oh Swindle, I’ve never been so close with another mech before.  I – I want . . .” he paused for dramatic effect.  “I want you to get closer, to wrap your dentae around my still-pulsing spark, to bite down on it, to taste it electric buzz – the essence of my soul!  I’ve never wanted anything so much!”

Swindle released his hold, readjusting his optics to their normal setting.  The scan was complete.  He could never make sense of the sheer amount of data contained in a sparkprint, but he could paste it into a database.  Without a word wasted, he shuffled over to the shelf in the corner and pulled out a copy of the  _ Citizen Database, _ jacking into it immediately.

“Bah!” Vortex groaned, sliding his chest plates closed.  “You really are a boring mech.  Did that not turn you on even a little?”

With a flat voice, Swindle replied, “You’re not my type.”  Within seconds, his query came back with exactly one match.  This was Vortex.  Or the mech that had  _ become _ Vortex, at any rate.  He should have figured that wasn’t his birth name.  No one in the Underground used their birth name, if they’d had one to begin with.  Why would Vortex be any different?

“Ah, so you’re a defector.  I suppose that makes sense.”  He took a seat next to Vortex as he looked over the data, most of it was pretty unsurprising, if not brief.  He must have defected at a pretty early age; he didn’t even have his tech specs yet.  There were a handful of details that had Swindle doing a double take, however.  It wasn’t hard to imagine why the creep had defected, though Swindle couldn’t stave off the touch of jealousy.  Imagine having an identity and willingly relinquishing it!  Swindle had never even had that much.

“See anything you like?” Vortex murmured, slumping a bit too heavily onto Swindle’s shoulders.

“Enough to catch my interest.”  This intel was worth at least as much as a comm.  Two million for the lot of it, though he could be persuaded to part with some of the less sensitive details for a few thousand.  Vortex probably wouldn’t mind  _ too _ much getting out. 

“Well, remember, you’re the only one who knows this.  So if someone else finds out, I’ll know who to blame.”  He retracted his mask, planting a chaste, yet remarkably creepy kiss on Swindle’s cheek.  Swindle tried so suppress his shudder by shaking Vortex off.  He sprang from the sofa, nearly tripping over the table in his effort to get away.

“What, did I spook ya?” Vortex laughed.

“I’ve got work to do.”  It was a pathetic cover, even if it  _ was _ true.  He was pretty sure Vortex was just messing with him, but a threat from Vortex was a remarkably scary thing, nonetheless.  “Gotta get this to my programmer . . .” he paused.  “You’re not gonna kill me if  _ he _ lets it slip, are you?”

“Hmm.”  Vortex flopped over on his side, letting his free rotors twitch in languid little sighs.  “I suppose that wouldn’t be very fair, would it.”  A downright malicious smile spread across his lips.  “I’ll just have to kill ya both, if that happens.  Tell me his name?”

Swindle hesitated.  “I don’t give out my contacts as a matter of professional security.  You understand.”

“Of course!” Vortex beamed.  “I’ll find out on my own.”  He yawned, rolling over onto his stomach, and hitting the button on the sofa’s side to lower the back.  All four rotors stretched freely, nearly locking into flight position.  He pillowed his head on his arm, visor dimming.

“What, you’re going back to sleep already?”

“M’tired,” was the mumbled reply.  Swindle was beginning to suspect that something serious had gone down.  Either Vortex was playing him, or he was glitched, and neither option was particularly optimistic.  He sighed.

“Whatever.  I’ll be back this evening.  Later.”

~~~

The knick knack buyers hadn’t been by lately; Swindle was beginning to wonder why he bothered opening shop.  It was Dixosol – Megatronus was fighting in the ring, and the tourists still came down in droves, albeit not quite to the same extent as before.  Bribes were needed to get past border patrol for most mechs, which meant that, unless they won big at the coliseum, nobody wanted to waste a single credit on frivolities.  Worse yet, Ratbat’s crackdown on border-hopping meant that, even those with the money to spend, didn’t want to be bogged down with proof of their now-illegal vacations at the border.  The most profitable day of the week had become least profitable overnight.

Swindle slumped forward, resting an elbow on the counter of his kiosk, the fingers of his free hand drumming an erratic rhythm.  Ordinarily he’d be out front, charming the passersby with a smile and a spiel, but not a soul was on the street today.  Apparently the tourists wanted to watch the match, then leave – no hanging around, no appreciating the sights.

He considered packing up early today; his time could be spent doing more profitable things.  Weapons were popular as of late.  And information brokering had become the hot new market.  A wise businessmech changed with the times, and the times said that taking advantage of the naivety of nobles was over.  Now was the time to take advantage of the uncertain climate that surrounded him.

Yes.  He’d close up here and head down to the slums to forage for more supplies, then hit the bars and spread word of his new hours.  Of course, before he had a chance to get started on this new plan, Blast Off showed up.

They’d worked together with fair regularity over the past year.  Despite that, all Swindle really knew about Blast Off was that he was a noble from Altihex, that he was working for a mech on the surface by the name of Onslaught, that Vortex was weirdly fixated on him, and that he was very good at sticking his olfactory sensors where they didn’t belong.  The mech seemed to fancy himself an entrepreneur in his own right, dabbling in weapons manufacturing and drug smuggling, as well as sponsoring a successful Silver League gladiator.  He was stepping on a lot of pedes just by being here, and yet, the miraculous oaf was somehow still alive.

Perhaps it was his unassuming nature, or the fact that he paid well, or his willingness to do as he was told, a rare trait amongst Alphas.  Whatever the case, he was a valued regular customer, though Dixosol was not his regular day.  How peculiar.

“Blast Off!  How unusual to see you on a day like today.  What can I do for you?”

Those cold indigo optics scrutinized Swindle, as though gauging his trustworthiness.  Of course, Swindle had plenty of practice in presenting himself as an unassuming, yet friendly confidant.  Blast Off would find nothing to mistrust here.

“I’m here with a strange request, I admit.”  Aww, how formal.  Swindle perked up, his own optics brightening ever so slightly.

“Well,” he laughed, “business isn’t exactly booming these days.  I’ll listen to anything, if it means there’s a chance I’ll go home tonight with at least  _ something _ to show for my work.”

Blast Off considered this for a long moment, then nodded, as though he’d confirmed Swindle’s honesty.  Of course Swindle was honest!  At least as far as his customers were concerned.

“I’ll preface this by saying that I have been to a variety of information brokers over the past two weeks, but every time I posed my request, I was either fed inconsequential information, or none at all.  Those that were willing to talk had an astronomical asking price, which . . . honestly, does not bode well.”

“So why’d you come to me?” Swindle asked, cocking his head.

Blast Off’s expression was impossible to read behind his mask, his EM field was held tight, and his voice contained little inflection.  There was no way to get a grasp on his feelings or motivations, save for the words themselves.  “You’re not an information broker, but you are a merchant, and one I’ve worked with extensively in the past.  I’m growing desperate at this point; I admit that I’m scouring my list of contacts in hopes of coming up with anything that can help.”

This sounded dangerous.  If even the information brokers weren’t doing their job, then they were either too incompetent to know, or too scared to share.  “So, what exactly is it that you’re looking for?” he asked, half terrified to hear the answer.

“There’s a mech that has been stalking me and my employees.”  Oh slag.  “He’s expressed interest in working for my . . . employer, but neither of us believe him to be trustworthy.  Still, if we are to make an enemy of a mech like this, we would not like to do so blindly.  Hence, the hunt for information.  I know he lives down here, and he seems quite powerful.  Perhaps you could tell me something – anything?  I am more than willing to pay, of course.”

Swindle had a sinking feeling in his tanks.  He should have seen this coming from the moment Blast Off approached him.  “Maybe.  Who’s the mech?”

“He’s a Rotary that calls himself Vortex, though that may be a pseudonym.”

Swindle wanted to laugh, and maybe cry a little, but mostly laugh.  What impressive timing, that Blast Off would come looking for information the very day Swindle learned all of the mech in question’s deepest secrets – not that Blast Off would be able to afford those.  Though he could probably afford  _ something _ .  If Vortex was so obsessed with these guys that he’d tear apart the fabric of the Underground for the chance to work with them, he probably wouldn’t be  _ too _ offended if they found out a thing or two in exchange.

“Vortex, yeah.  I know him.  What exactly are you looking to find out?”

Even Blast Off couldn’t hide the flicker of joy in his pretty optics.  He paused, however, to consider his options.  “How much will five thousand get me?”

Swindle’s grin faltered.  Five thousand shanix was nowhere near enough to be worth risking an agonizing death for.  On the other hand, if he played his cards right, he could get himself not only into Blast Off’s (and by extension Onslaught’s) favor, but Vortex’s as well.

“Is that too few?”

“Well,” Swindle laughed, affecting a nervous break in his voice.  “I can tell you that Vortex is the sort of mech you  _ do not _ want to make an enemy of.  I can see why the brokers have been so unhelpful.”

“How is that?”

Swindle weighed his options.  “He’s a medic class Rotary, right?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“He may not have the training, but the base coding is there.  He is  _ very good _ at making a mech have a bad day, if you know what I’m saying.”

Slowly, Blast Off nodded.  And was that a shudder?  “Ah yes.  I have witnessed his . . . perversions first hand.”

“And lived to tell the tale?!”  Primus, Vortex really  _ did _ like this mech.  Usually he wasn’t so reckless.

“He shot me, then hacked my comm.”

“Ah.”  Come to think of it, the Intel he was receiving from Blast Off wasn’t half bad.  “And you said he was stalking your employees?”

Blast Off sighed.  “He’s convinced my gladiator that they’re a ceremony shy of endurae status.”

It was only his strong sense of professionalism that kept him from laughing this time.  “Wow.  That is – wow.”

“Brawl won’t hear a word against him.”

“Vortex is quite a manipulative piece of slag,” Swindle agreed.  “He’s  _ very _ good at getting what he wants.  He gets in your head – not literally,” he added, at Blast Off’s worried look.  “Well, sometimes literally.  But he doesn’t need to hack you to read you.  That’s his gift.  He finds out what you want, then finds a way to make it what  _ he _ wants.  And right now, he wants in with you.  Don’t ask me why.  He can be real cagey when he wants to be.”

“So you know him?” 

“Yeah, I know him – I said that already.  Most folks down here do.”  That was a neutral enough thing to say.

Blast Off, however, seemed to be putting together the pieces of a puzzle which Swindle was not privy to.  He hesitated, as though unsure whether or not he should be sticking his olfactory sensors in this time.  “I do admit, there is another reason I came to you, specifically.”

Swindle tensed.  What did  _ that _ mean?  “Yeah?”

“I have a witness that says he saw you chatting with Vortex at the bar, Electric Oasis the night before Modulator was murdered, though he went home with someone else – one of Modulator’s accountants.  Is this true?”

Frag, frag, frag!  Swindle glanced around, with normal focus, wide focus, and zoom, careful to keep an optic out for any listeners, or listening devices.  There were none.  Still, he leaned in close, just to be safe.  “Is  _ that _ what happened?  I was there, yeah.  And I spoke to him, but he was pretty out of it at the time, so we didn’t talk for long, and he spent most of the conversation babbling in gibberish.”

“Do you think he was responsible for taking down Modulator?”

Swindle stiffened, giving the street another quick look around.  “Primus!” he snapped, “Don’t say things like that aloud.  You’re gonna get one of us killed – probably me!”

“Apologies.”  To his credit, Blast Off leaned closer as well. 

“As to your question, I can neither confirm nor deny this.  I don’t know what happened to the big guy, nor do I care to find out.  What I  _ can _ say, is that it is something that I can see him doing.”

“I see,” he replied, his voice much quieter than before.  He looked surprisingly worried as he let out a sigh of his vents.  “Not much I didn’t already know, I’m afraid.”  He pulled a cable from his wrist, and plugged it into the cube that sat on the counter.  Above the cube, a hologram manifested, indicating a deposit of five thousand shanix.

“Ah, thank you kindly.”  Was that it?  He didn’t much like the thought of leaving a customer unsatisfied.  He pondered for a moment, weighing his options, wondering just how much Blast Off was willing to spend on information.  Whatever he decided, it would have to be quick; Blast Off was already starting to walk away.

Oh, what the hell?

“Ah, Blast Off,” he called out, beckoning him back over once he’d turned back.  “For five thousand more, I can tell you something you don’t know.”

“Is that so?” Blast Off looked skeptical.  “I feel I may be better off trying my luck somewhere else.  I don’t have unlimited resources, Swindle.  Why should I stay?”

Swindle was almost offended, but business was business.  “I’ve good reason to believe I know more about him than anyone else in the Underground.”

“I’m sure Brawl would say the same.”

This time, Swindle  _ was _ offended.  “Please, I’d like to think I have a few more wits than a love-struck gladiator.  I bought the information fair and square, and I happen to have very compelling evidence to back it up.”

“Is that so?”  Blast Off didn’t sound particularly convinced, but that didn’t stop him from saying, “Very well.  Five thousand to tell me something useful about Vortex that I don’t already know.”

“You got yourself a deal!” he said with a grin.  Swindle glanced around the street once more, as a safety precaution, but still, no one was around.  Blast Off was staring at him, as though he were some paranoid twit, but Swindle didn’t care.  Even if they  _ were  _ empty, Vortex’s threats still lingered in his mind.

_ Well, remember, you’re the only one who knows this.  So if someone else finds out, I’ll know who to blame. _

Swindle’s grin widened.  “Since I’m so generous, I’ll tell you one thing for each thousand shanix!” 

Blast Off remained passive, despite how obviously good this deal was.  At least, Swindle hoped it was a good deal, and he hoped he wasn’t misjudging Vortex’s weird obsession with this lot, nor his own ability to talk himself out of a bad situation.  He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life constantly surrounded by bodyguards.

“So, first – he’d never admit to this, but he’s got a minor addiction to Syk.”

“To Syk?”

“Yeah!  You know, that recreational drug – you mix it with energon and it glitches out your processor.  You experience synesthesia, mild hallucinations, and a slowing of the spark.”

“I know what Syk is,” Blast Off bit back, impatient, but not angry.  “But you said the addiction is mild?”

“Yeah,” Swindle nodded.  “He wouldn’t kill for it, but he might get a bit twitchy if he goes without for too long.”  He waited for Blast Off’s prompt to continue, but when it never came he figured he may as well go for it himself.  “Anyway, number two: he’s a mech that thrives on attention, and by extension, hates isolation.  He can deal with it, of course – you’re not gonna break him by shoving him in a cell and throwing away the key, but you might upset him, which admittedly, is generally a bad idea.”

“Okay.”  Primus, would it kill this guy to be a little more enthusiastic about this valuable information?

Swindle’s smile grew more forced as he pressed on.  The next ones would be gold.  “Three: he’s an outlier.”

Blast Off actually managed to look shocked at that.  “An outlier?   _ Him _ ?”

“Yeah,” Swindle nodded, his natural grin returning.  As far as he knew, nobody down here, save for Vortex himself knew this.  “Admittedly, I’ve never seen the power first hand, but like I said, I got the evidence.  He can produce tornadoes, up to two hundred fifty kliks per cycle windspeed.”

Blast Off staggered.  “That is . . . surprisingly devastating.  But he’s never used it before?  That sounds a little suspect, forgive me.”

Swindle shrugged, laughing.  “Oh, he’s used it before, just not down here.  Something like that is a bit high profile, y’know?  Which brings me to number four: he’s a defector, wanted by the Primal Vanguard.”

“Somehow, that’s unsurprising,” Blast Off mused, folding his arms over his chest.  If Swindle had to describe the gesture, he’d call it smug.

“Don’t get too excited.  You can’t just call up the Primal Vanguard and have them hunt him down and expect to win.  He escaped them once before, has dodged them for more than three vorns.  You might delay him, but in the end, you’re just pissing him off.”

“You’re saying there’s no way to beat him.”

“Short of killing him?  Not really.  And I mean, you  _ could _ just kill him.  So long as you don’t let him get his claws under your plating, he’s not actually that good in a fight.  He relies more on wits and surprise to overpower his opponents.  That’s not to say he can’t take care of himself, but you veterans could probably take him, if you really wanted to.”  Time to plant the idea and hope it stuck.  “But I assume you’re like most folks – aware of his potential usefulness.  Maybe it’s better to keep him alive so you can take advantage of his knowledge?”  He smiled sweetly, despite Blast Off’s return to blank inexpression. 

“Was that number five?” he returned, flatly.

“Let’s call it four and a half,” Swindle sighed.  “Number five is this.  I can’t tell you the exact details, or his intentions, but I can tell you that he is planning to make his way up to the surface, probably within a lunar cycle or two.”

“He’s an Untouchable, isn’t he?” Blast Off commented, his optic on the ground, as though lost in a memory.  “He can’t get past the border without a valid comm.”

Swindle snickered.  “He’s  _ Vortex _ .  He can do anything he puts his mind to.  If he wants to go visit you on the surface, he’ll find a way – which he has, by the way.  Hence the timeline I gave you.  Better prepare yourselves.  He’s coming, and the only thing that can possibly stop him is himself.”

Cold indigo optics locked onto Swindle, begging elaboration, but this time, Swindle wasn’t going to budge without the magic word. 

“Himself?”

“He’s the most self-destructive mech I know what isn’t straight up an Empty.  There’s always the chance that he’ll piss off the wrong mech, or die of an overdose, or any number of things.  But I wouldn’t count on it.”  He offered a mock salute, which Blast Off accepted with cold indifference.  “Anyway, that’s five things you didn’t know.  Put your shanix in the box, and have a nice day.  Also, this should go without saying, but . . .” he glanced around again, “don’t let any of this get back to him.  I rather like having all of my limbs.”

Blast Off had no response to that, but he did plug himself back into the box, inserting another five thousand shanix, before finally turning around and walking away – just in time too.  Mechs were beginning to trickle out onto the streets at last.  Megatronus’s match must have ended.  A few passersby spared his kiosk a glance, but nobody stopped to chat.  That was just fine; he’d made a fine profit today already.  Information selling really  _ was _ the way to go.

~~~

Swindle was feeling pretty good when he walked through the door of his apartment that night, and why shouldn’t he have?  He was ten thousand shanix richer, had strengthened his relationship with a wealthy ally, had betrayed Vortex in a way he would probably be grateful for, had  _ finally _ gotten enough information to Short Circuit, his programmer, to get some major work done on this comm project.  All in all, today had been a good day.

All of that changed when he saw what was waiting for him on the sofa.

For the first time in two weeks, Vortex was gone, and in his place, was the gruesome, greyed out remains of a severed head, spinal column, and empty spark chamber.  Swindle was in a panic.  He didn’t know how it was possible, but Vortex had found out about his deal with Blast Off, and he wasn’t happy.  The head was a warning: ‘this is what happens when you double-cross me!’

And yet, even as he thought it, he started to take in the signs.  The distinctive crest on the helm marked the victim as one of Modulator’s inner circle, the flaking of his dead metal indicated that he’d been a corpse for a while now, the inclusion of the spinal column and spark chamber implied that Vortex had kept him alive as just a head – at least for a little while, probably for information.  This wasn’t about Swindle; this was about . . . whoever this was.

If Swindle had any doubt, the datapad left on the table confirmed his realization.

_ Hey Swin!  I took what you said to spark.  Gonna go see a doctor – recruit him for our project, and maybe get my own head sorted out too.  I think I may have partied too hard!  That, or this fragger did something to me.  It sucks either way . . . _

_ Anyway, you know doctors – they’re all poking and prodding and curious, and stuff, so I figured I’d leave the contents of my subspace here.  Take care of it ‘til I get back.  Thanks! _

_ ~Vortex _

Swindle slumped onto the floor, allowing his head to flop down on the table with a thud.  What on the Cybertron of Primus below had possessed him to let this deranged lunatic stay in his house?  There was a severed head on his sofa!  That was absurd, and more than a little disgusting!  And moreover, it brought to light just what a mess Swindle had gotten himself into.

Who was he kidding?  Vortex may have  _ really _ wanted to throw his lot in with Blast Off and friends, but that didn’t mean he’d thank Swindle for telling them his every last weakness, no matter how trivial they may have been.  And now that Blast Off knew, he could no longer be comfortable in the knowledge that Vortex would never find out.  It was time to call in Heavy Metal and Gear Grinder, just in case, and for extra insurance, keep up with the comm project, to make sure he was more useful to Vortex alive than dead.  It might yet be nothing.  He might well have been overreacting, but still, it was better safe than tortured to death.

Primus, a severed head on his sofa.  He was never going to be able to sit there again.

 


	9. Damaged Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vortex hasn't been feeling well lately. Maybe it's time to see a doctor?

Vortex was beginning to regret some of his choices.  It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced regret, of course, but it had been awhile since he’d done something so irredeemably stupid.  Everything hurt, and had been hurting since that fateful Unisol.  He’d taken down Modulator, won his self-imposed bet with Swindle, and was well on his way to life in the sun (and the fire that followed, of course).  It should have been his crowning moment of triumph, but all he felt was pain, lethargy, and a heavy fog in place of his memory files.

He’d glitched himself, that much was certain.  Years of having the insult thrown his way, and now, at last, here he was, well and truly out of his head.  He knew that he’d orchestrated Modulator’s assassination, but he couldn’t remember how he’d done it for the life of him.  The night of the murder was a major blank, and the week leading up to it was lost in the haze of his broken memories.  He didn’t remember going home with the accountant, or killing him, or even the guy’s name.  Pit, he’d been more than a little surprised to find the severed head inside his subspace (all six times he’d discovered it), though at least it helped him piece together what must have gone down.

He remembered the cloying, familiar scent of Electric Oasis, and he remembered the distinct smell of fried circuitry and spilt energon the morning after.  He was pretty certain that he’d gone home with the accountant, stayed the night, butchered him once he’d let his guard down, and held onto the head just long enough to hack Modulator’s bank account and transfer Swindle his money in the chaos surrounding Mr. Big Wig’s death.  With no further use for the accountant, he would have killed him at that point, most likely.  Though he should have long since disposed of that head.  He didn’t like how careless he’d become.

Speaking of careless misdeeds . . .

It wasn’t hard to imagine that his accountant partner had done something to him, though the list of things that could have been was pretty damn extensive, and to be honest, half of it consisted of things Vortex was equally likely to have done to himself.  The voice in his head, however, insisted that the accountant was to blame.  He was one of Modulator’s inner circle; he wasn’t likely to be a pushover.  It was all too plausible that Vortex had only just managed to escape with his life, provided this glitched processor didn’t kill him anyway.  What he’d done was supremely foolish; a smarter mech wouldn’t have dared to try.

Vortex was surprised by just how much the thought upset him.  He was the king of not caring; he shouldn’t have been bothered.  And yet here he was, not quite himself.  He was aching, incapable of keeping track of his short-term memory, and exhausted, despite the short distance he’d traveled from Swindle’s apartment.  And, to his further annoyance, he’d only just realized that he was being followed. 

Were he at peak health, he would have noticed long ago.  Staying alert in the Underground was integral to survival, and yet here he was, fumbling around blindly, not noticing his pursuers until they’d neatly herded him to a less crowded part of the district.  He wasn’t completely alone yet.  A handful of gladiators were chatting amongst themselves in front of a pub; his pursuers would likely try to isolate him in a nearby alley before striking; it was what  _ he _ would have done, after all.  His best choice, then, was to stop moving and call them out before that could happen.

“You ain’t gettin’ me alone, so you may as well stop playing peekaboo.”

Nothing happened.  Vortex stumbled backwards, apropos of nothing, save for the aggravating weakness of his own frame.  He slumped against a wall.  “I told you,” he repeated, “I’m not takin’ another step ‘til y’all show your pretty faces.”

Three mechs appeared at that – one hopping down from atop a building, one slipping out of the alley up ahead, and another stepping out of the building at Vortex’s back.  Naturally, he recognized all three.  Seekers were an uncommon sight in the Underground; of course he’d remember them.  This particular trine was composed of highly-ranked members of the Assassin’s Guild.   _ That _ wasn’t good.

“Ah, what was it?  Stormchaser, Stratosphere, and . . . Crash?”

“Clash,” the bright red and teal Seeker corrected. 

_ Ah yes.  Because of the clashing paintjob.  Of course. _

“My bad,” Vortex laughed.  “How can I be helping y’all today?”

“I think you know,” Stratosphere smiled sweetly.  Stormchaser stepped closer, tapping her claws together in a small threat display.

“What, a hit?  On little old me?  That can’t be right.  Catalyst would never put a hit on one of his own mechs.”

“Yeah?” Stratosphere sneered.  “Well, who says you’re still one of his mechs?”

Vortex cocked his head.  “I’m out?”

Clash grit her teeth.  “Of course you’re out!  Your behavior last week was inexcusable!  Catalyst is not an idiot!  He knows what you were up to.  And he has no intention of letting you stick around to try again.”

What was she on about?  He really hoped it didn’t relate to the week of fuzzy half-memories, though even his glitched-beyond-redemption processor knew better than to hope.  “Er, sorry.  I don’t recall talking to Catalyst lately.  What exactly did I do?  I know I’m not in good standing right now, exactly, but Catalyst wouldn’t kick me out for failing to off a retracted hit.”

Stormchaser lurched forward, pinning Vortex to the wall by his throat, several feet off the ground.  He kicked his legs feebly and wrapped his weak grip around her wrist, in an effort to alleviate the pressure.  The positioning wasn’t too dangerous just yet, but he was wary.  Even at full strength, he wasn’t exactly a match for three Seekers.  In his current state?  He wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Don’t mock us!” Clash snapped.  “You know what you did!”

“You don’t know what I know,” Vortex choked back, static lacing his crushed vocaliser. 

“And what is it that you know?” Stratosphere questioned, folding her arms over her chest with a smirk.

Stupid strangulation, ruining his inflection.  “Not a whole lot,” he groaned.  “In case you didn’t notice while tailing me, I’m a little under the weather at the moment.  My processor is a bit laggy; I don’t remember much from the last three weeks.  So if I talked to Catalyst in that time, which I’m not denying I did, but if I did talk to him, I sure as the Pit don’t remember it.”

Clash and Stratosphere exchanged glances, as though gauging the sincerity of his words.

“You . . . really don’t remember?” Clash prodded.

“I said I didn’t.”

“Very well,” Stratosphere sighed.  “Stormchaser, restrain him.  We’ll take him in for a chat with Catalyst.  The hit did say ‘Wanted dead or alive.’  I’m sure he’d love to kill you himself.”  She turned on her heel.  “Let’s go.”

In one swift motion, Stormchaser jerked Vortex from the wall, wrapping her free arm around his back, holding him pinned against her chest, his feet dangling in the air.  Stupid little legs.

The trine didn’t make it far, however.  It seemed that their interactions with Vortex had drawn the attention of one of the gladiators – an olive tank who Vortex recognized, though his processor was slow to attach a name to the face.  Regardless of what his name was, however, it was clear the tank was not entirely happy.  This would prove fun; Vortex had no doubt.

“Put him down,” the Tank growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Back off, Gladiator!” Stratosphere warned.  “We have no problem with you.  Leave, and you won’t get hurt.”

It seemed this particular gladiator was a mech of action.  He didn’t ask again.  Instead, he lunged forward, throwing an angry punch at Stratosphere, who was too startled to dodge.  She went flying, straight past her trinemates, and into the building Vortex had been pinned against earlier.  It caved at the impact, and Stratosphere did not get back up.

“Stratosphere!” Clash shrieked.  She lunged at the Tank, but the moment she’d spared for her fallen trinemate was enough to cost her the fight.  Her opponent grabbed her wing with enough force to dent the metal, then brought his heavy elbow down on her head.  She crumpled to the ground, her wing tearing with a painful shriek of metal.  No doubt she would have been screaming were she still conscious.

Stormchaser was the only mech left.  She released Vortex in favor of pulling her blaster on the tank; she even managed a few direct hits, but none was strong enough to pierce that warrior class armor.  She tossed the weapon aside and lunged forward, trying to get her claws beneath the Tank’s plating in a mimicry of Vortex’s favorite move, but the Tank was savvy enough to dodge.  He held out a leg to trip her up, then, once she was on the ground, gave her back a few good stomps, leaving her wing connection a mess of exposed circuitry and broken wires.  She was conscious, but in far too much pain to care about Vortex at the moment. 

It had been an easy victory, no less than expected of a gladiator.  Of course, the real questions could be asked now.  Why had this gladiator sprung to his rescue?  Did he want some kind of reward?  Was he smarter than he looked?

“Th-thanks,” Vortex squeaked, rubbing at his damaged throat cables.  He probably should have crawled back to his feet, but truth be told, the energy for such a bold maneuver was a bit beyond him at the moment.  At least he could play up his own weakness down here on the ground.  Never a bad idea, provided he’d never met this mech before.  Of course, he was pretty sure that he’d not only met What’s-His-Name, but had slept with him too.   _ Frag it, what IS his name? _

“Are you okay, Vortex?” 

The next thing he knew, that huge mech was kneeling at his side, reaching out with a massive hand to stroke tenderly at Vortex’s aching helm.  Well, at least that answered  _ one  _ of his questions.  “Mmm, maybe not.”  He let his rotors droop, an action that actually took more energy than keeping them in their resting position, but the pitiful effect it transmitted was more than worth it.  Those big optics, hidden behind an orange visor, filled with worry.  Within seconds, those strong arms were pulling Vortex flush to a very generous chest.  Not bad.

“Primus,” the guy said, ignoring Vortex’s statement, “I was so worried about you, Vortex!  Onslaught ordered me to stay away from you, but how was I supposed to do that when you were in trouble?  I couldn’t just let those Seekers hurt you!”

Onslaught?  Ohhh, right.   _ That’s _ who this was.

“Brawl,” Vortex mumbled, his voice muffled by Brawl’s tight hold on him.

“Yes!” Brawl gushed.  “Everyone tried to tell me that you’re not good – Blast Off and Pinpoint and Onslaught, but I didn’t listen to them.  I  _ know _ you, Vortex!  I know your spark.  You are really a wonderful mech.”

Primus, he really had picked a dumb one, hadn’t he?  He hadn’t expected to leave such an impression on the guy.  Just one more mistake made in recent weeks.  It would be disastrous if the guy ever found out the truth, but at the moment, he wouldn’t mind taking advantage of such devotion.

“Thanks Brawl.  That means a lot to me,” Vortex sighed, nuzzling his helm into that lovely hand.  He imagined it wrapping around his head, squeezing the life from it, just as he’d seen the great Megatronus do in some of his matches.  Mmm, what a delightful thought.

_ Wait, what _ ?

His interface equipment hadn’t bothered activating; it  _ should  _ have at a thought so delectable as that one.  Just one more reminder of his fuck up, then.  Not only could he not get his short-term memory in check, but now he couldn’t even get his array to activate.  Primus, he never should have crossed Modulator.  Or Catalyst, apparently.  Whatever he’d done  _ there _ .

He slumped to the side, admittedly not falling to far, with Brawl’s grip as firm as it was.  Still, it seemed enough to win him some sympathy points.

“Vortex?!”  Those strong hands steadied him, sat him upright, just far enough back for Brawl to get a good look at him.  “Are you alright?  No, no, you said you weren’t!  Why aren’t you alright?!  What’s wrong?!”

Vortex winced.  It seemed he’d also picked a  _ loud _ one.  That booming voice was not doing any favors for his aching processor at the moment.  He disabled his optics, hoping to block out a little input, to ease the sensory overload.  “I uh . . .” he choked back a well-timed burst of static from his crushed vocaliser.  All the better to win Brawl’s pity.  “I don’t know – I think – I think I need to see a doctor.”

“R-right!”  Brawl wasted no time scooping Vortex’s lighter frame into his arms.  Hmm, this was nice.  This was very nice indeed, even if Brawl’s pleasantly-massive chest was interfering with his grip.  “A doctor!  I’ll get you to a doctor!”

“Do you know Hook?” Vortex sighed, already beginning to doze off.  He couldn’t make out Brawl’s reply, but it sounded like an affirmation.  “Take me to Hook.  He’ll know what to do.”

Brawl was still talking – loudly – but the words slid off Vortex like oil.  His processor was out the door; there was no way he was sticking around to hear some pointless, noisy rambling.  Instead, he let his sensors take in the comfortable warmth of Brawl’s mighty frame, the worried buzz of his EM field, the cool air that flew over him as they moved, almost, but not quite like flying, and the smell – heavy and surprisingly fresh, of the Tank that held him.  It was a nice smell.  He buried his head in that chest and dozed off, with the tender sound of his name on the air.

“Vortex.  Vortex.”

“Vortex!”

“What?” Vortex grumbled, letting his optics flicker back on to take in the sight of the green and purple mech that stood above him.  Above?  He tried to sit up and look around, but he couldn’t quite muster the energy.  His head was spinning, feeling heavier than it had all week, though the fog at least seemed to have lightened up.  At the very least, he could tell that he was lying flat on a medical slab in Hook’s makeshift District Seven infirmary.  That was a good sign at least.

“Took you long enough,” Hook groaned.  He was a brilliant physician, despite the lack of Medic coding, but his bedside manner had always needed a little work.

“You know you’re supposed to let a patient rest after an operation, right?”  His jab was met with a jab of Hook’s own, right to the elbow joint.  His frame jerked, nearly blacking out from the intensity of the sensation.  Not bad.  “Oooh, do that again,” he sighed.

“Stop pretending to be turned on,” Hook retorted, unruffled.  “Your frame doesn’t have the energy to spare for interface right now.”

“My frame’s not the boss of me,” Vortex laughed back.

“Idiot.”  Hook folded his arms over his chest and shook his head.  “You really are a waste of a mech, you know that, right?”

“I do!” Vortex chirped with far more enthusiasm than he felt.  Hook’s assessment wasn’t wrong.  He barely had enough energy to stay awake, but Vortex wouldn’t be Vortex if he didn’t take the opportunity to prove himself an obnoxious pain in the afterburner at every moment.  Though if he was here alone with Hook, he may as well talk business.

“Swin got the stuff, by the way.  Mixmaster’s poison?”

“Has he sold it yet?”

Vortex shrugged.  “Maybe?”

Hook narrowed his optics.  “What a helpful courier you turned out to be.”

Now that was just rude!  Vortex frowned, aware for the first time that his mask had been retracted in his sleep.  “Sorry Hook.  Seems I don’t got much in the way of recent memories.”

“Yes,” Hook agreed, “I’m aware.”  Was he now?  Interesting.

“So Doc,” Vortex reached for Hook’s hand, wrapping his own trembling fingers around it.  He didn’t even need to act.  “What’s the diagnosis?”

“The diagnosis is, you’re an idiot.”  Hook wrenched his hand out of Vortex’s grasp, as though bitten.  He repositioned himself just out of reach before elaborating.  “I thought even  _ you _ knew better than to upload circuit boosters directly to your brain module.”

Vortex tensed, the memory of that smell – the burned circuitry of the morning after, clogging his senses.  “Why would I do something like that?  I’m reckless, not suicidal.”  It was a sincere question.  He couldn’t remember what had happened.  Had his partner tried to kill him?

“I don’t know why you do any of the nonsense things you do,” Hook snapped back.  “Though the Syk you were on probably saved your life.  Your system couldn’t process it with your processor glitched as it was, so your frame has spent the last two weeks in a perpetually lagging state, as opposed to the fried state you’d be in had the boosters been allowed to function unhindered.”

“So what you’re saying is, if you  _ do _ upload circuit boosters directly to your brain, always make sure you’re double clocking?”

Hook narrowed his optics.  “You shouldn’t be doing either!  The frag were you thinking?!”

Vortex shrugged as best as he could manage on his back.  “I honestly don’t remember.”  Fried circuitry, spilt energon, transfluid – yes!  He remembered the smell of transfluid, clinging to his frame on that terribly morning, but it wasn’t normal.  It was burnt, cloying, nausea-inducing.  The frag?

“You wrecked your brain module, you wrecked your frame, what are you going to wreck next?”

“My frame?” Vortex pressed.  He hadn’t noticed any issues with his frame lately, though admittedly, he’d been too low-energy to notice much of anything save for how draining every moment of his continued existence had been.  And even now, it seemed that Hook had loaded him up with some kind of numbing agent.  Vortex could scarcely feel the lower half of his body.   

“I keep telling you.  Modifications or no, valves have their limits.”

“Wait, did you disable my array?  Is that why I can’t get any charge?”

“You can’t get any charge because you have no energy to spare,” Hook explained impatiently, before adding, “But yes, I did disable your array in order to operate.  It looked like you fragged a smelter, or like, a soldering iron.  The frag is wrong with you?”

“I didn’t frag a soldering iron,” Vortex insisted.  At least, he was pretty sure that was something he wouldn’t do.  “A Smelter, maybe, but not a soldering iron.  I told you, Hook.  I’m not stupid.”

“You’re a good actor then.”  Hook stepped away, in favor of fiddling with some instruments on the counter, just beyond Vortex’s sight.

“Whatcha doin’, Hook?” he asked, straining his neck to see.  He didn’t have to wait long for Hook to return, however.  A datapad landed on his chest, and gingerly, Vortex picked it up to read it.  Primus, had Hook drained his fuel lines too?  His arm felt like it was running dry. 

A look at the datapad had him groaning, letting the arm collapse back to his chest with a clang.  “I thought we were squared away?”

“’Were’ being the key word there,” Hook insisted.  “I spent the entire night operating on your sorry aft.  This ain’t a charity I’m runnin’ here.  Two thousand shanix, or a suitable equivalent.  Pay up, or you get to see just how deep my medical knowledge runs.”

“Don’t you guys gotta take an oath or something?  ‘Do no harm?’”

“I’m not a Medic, Vortex.  I can do whatever I feel.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed, letting his heavy helm roll to the side.  “All my cash is invested in Swindle at the moment.  Comms project.  Speaking of –”

“No,” Hook snapped.  “No negotiations until you pay up.”  He turned his back on Vortex, and began moving towards the exit.  That walking frag hat was actually  _ leaving _ !

“Hey!  Wait a second!”  He hated how weak his voice sounded as he yelled after Hook.

“Two thousand shanix or a suitable equivalent.  I’ll give you the rest of the lunar cycle.  Talk to me or Mixmaster when you’re ready.  Then we can talk comms.”  He hit the switch at the door’s side, allowing it to slide open.  “Alright,” he called, his voice muffled in the hall.  Vortex couldn’t quite make out what he said after that, but the heavy footsteps that followed gave him a guess.

Brawl came barreling into the room moments later.  “Vortex!  Thank Primus!  I was so worried when you passed out!  I thought you’d never wake up.”  Frag.  He’d stuck around?  All night?  What was wrong with this mech?  Hook poked his head back into the room just long enough to make sure Brawl hadn’t killed Vortex in his enthusiasm.

“Brawl here’s been waiting for you,” Hook explained, with an air of irritation easily translating the unspoken part of the sentence.   _ He’s been bothering me all night.  You take him now. _  “I promised I’d let him see you the moment you were awake.  Have fun.”  At that, Hook dipped out of the infirmary, letting the door slide shut behind him.

_ Burn in the Pit, Hook! _

“Are you okay, Vortex?” Brawl said, nearly sobbing in his worry.  “Can you speak?  Or maybe you need to recharge?  Sleep is very important for a mech in your position!  Oh, please, just let me know if you’re okay.”

Weakly, Vortex nodded.  He was in no place to deal with Brawl’s booming voice, grabby hands, or pathetic attitude.  But he also was in no place to resist the larger, stronger, more determined mech.  He lay on his bed, letting his optics flicker off again.  His processor couldn’t take all of this input; had Hook  _ really _ fixed the thing?  He better have, if he was charging two thousand shanix for it!

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he lied.  “Just tired.”

“Right!  Of course!  Of course you’d be tired.  I just – I wish I knew what happened.  Blast Off thinks that you’re a bad mech; Pinpoint thinks you’re the one that took out Modulator, but they’re wrong.  I know you better than that.”

Vortex had no idea who this Pinpoint was, but he was probably a bit too savvy to live.  He’d look into it when he was back on his feet.  “Thank you for believing in me,” he croaked.  Come to think of it, sleep did sound pretty nice right about now.

“Of course!  I just – I mean . . .”  He trailed off.  “I mean, I’m so sorry, Vortex.  I’m so sorry for doubting you!”  What?  What was this noisy idiot on about now?  “It’s just – it had been so long, and I hadn’t heard back from you and – well, I started to wonder if they were right about you.”  Oh no.  Not now.  He couldn’t be having this conversation right now.

“Onslaught told me you were a dangerous mech.  He warned me to stay away, and – and Onslaught’s not stupid.  He wouldn’t give me an order unless he knew what he was talking about.  And I know I’m not very smart.  I thought maybe I was just too dumb to see it.  Maybe Onslaught was right about you.”  He let his hand tense against Vortex’s shoulder.  Even the slight pressure was remarkably pleasant against his drained fuel lines.   _ Mmm, do it harder. _

“But then I saw you today, with those Seekers, and I knew that, for once in his life, Onslaught was wrong.”

“Onslaught?” Vortex asked lazily, hoping that Brawl would let a little more slip about his elusive boss.  He knew what the files said, of course, but a dry military report or a handful of news articles were no match for a face-to-face encounter.

“He’s my boss.  We fought in the war together.  He’s a genius!  Strategic mastermind.  Always thinks ten steps ahead.  Plays the long game – that’s what the others always said anyway.  We’re like complete opposites.”

“Oh,” Vortex sighed, nuzzling his helm against the hand on his shoulder.  The action elicited the desired effect.  Brawl’s thick, firm fingers began stroking the flat planes and sharp crevices of Vortex’s helm.  It was nice in a different way – pleasure instead of pain.  His engine purred softly as he leaned into each touch, for optimum sensation, at least until he ran out of the energy to do so.  “Sounds like a dangerous guy,” he mumbled.  Was that too strange a thing to say?  Oh frag it all, who cared?

“He said the same about you,” Brawl laughed.  “You kind of remind me of him though, in a way.”

“I do?”

“Well, not a whole lot,” he admitted.  “You’re small and soft, and he is big – bigger than me even – and hard.  He’s an anti-aerial truck.  And you’re – well – a Helicopter.  So you’re really not all that similar at all.”  His frame sagged; Vortex could feel the extra weight on his helm, lulling him all the further towards the nice, heavy sleep that was waiting for him.  He groaned softly, trying to encourage Brawl to keep it up.  It had the opposite effect.

“Sorry,” Brawl said, straightening up.  “What I meant to say was, you’re both really smart.  Witty.  And driven too, I think.  Confident and brave.  And maybe you  _ are _ dangerous, just like he is.  What do I know?” Brawl shrugged.  “But in the end, I think maybe that’s why I admire you.  I always admired Onslaught for what he could accomplish, even against impossible odds.  If Pinpoint is right, if you really  _ did _ kill Modulator, then, well – I think you and Onslaught are the only mechs I know what could pull off something like that.  Maybe I saw that when I first met you.  Maybe that’s why I fell so fast.  Maybe that’s why I’ve been so dumb around you.  And maybe Onslaught will see it too.”

Wait, what?  That didn’t sound good.  Those fingers tensed around his helm, and once again, Vortex imagined being crushed in that mighty grip, only this time, it was a very real threat.  He let his optics flicker back on, though the visual feed was laced with static, and his color sensors weren’t activating. 

_ Frag, frag, frag! _

Brawl was on his comm; Vortex still had the back door open to it, he could still hear every word uttered, even in sub-voc.  He should have intercepted the call, but that took energy he just didn’t have right now.  Already, his optics were cutting out again.

_ “Onslaught, I got him, just like you ordered.”   _ At least Brawl sounded sad about the fact.

_ “Excellent work.  I’ve sent word to Blast Off.  He’ll meet up with you at the following coordinates: [KAD09:L02:MMCD40625].  Onslaught out.” _

Vortex felt the haphazard weightlessness that came with being carried in Brawl’s awkward grasp.  Had he been at full strength, fighting off Brawl would have been a matter of getting his claws into the thin gap in his wrist plating – easy.  But as it was, his head was heavy, his frame was half-numb, and his fuel reserves were painfully low.  There was no resisting.  The best he could do was stay awake for the few seconds it took to send a distress signal to Swindle (like  _ Swindle _ would help him!), before at last succumbing to his own exhaustion, and whatever sedatives Hook had filled him with.  Frag it all, how had he messed up so bad?


	10. Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing Blast Off wants to do is face Vortex, but orders are orders.

Onslaught had bad timing.  He may have been a cunning leader with schemes that would take him and his followers straight to the top, but he could wait another damn half cycle for Blast Off to finish with his meeting.  In light of Ratbat’s travel restrictions, conducting business in the Underground had become a fair bit harder.  Everyone involved had taken a hit, VRIO included.  But Blast Off at least had the money to spend on bribes.  There were times when that which he spent to get Border Patrol off his case nearly outweighed the profits gained from his smuggled Syk but by and large the effort was well worth the cost. 

The idea of bringing crippling drug addiction to the surface mechs struck Blast Off as more than a little untoward, but as Onslaught had so rightly noted, the mechs up top had no problem when the very real problem was buried out of sight.  Perhaps if it moved to their front doorsteps, they’d finally bother to do something about it.  It took a bit of mental finagling to sway his conscience, but in the end, they would be doing a lot of good for the future of Cybertron.  It was worth doing a little bit of bad in the now to get there.

So he continued to arrange meetings with Pothole, High Rider, and Riptire.  They provided the goods, he smuggled them to the wealthy mechs up top, charged ten times their worth, then brought a cut of the profits back down.  The X-Additive trade was easily the most lucrative of VRIO’s underground pursuits, having bypassed Brawl’s Silver League earnings lunar cycles ago.  Without the need to pay tithe to Modulator, and the bonus cut he took for the added danger of being a smuggler in this climate, he was making more money than ever on that front, bribes or no.  Well worth it indeed.

Today was the first chance Blast Off had scrounged up to meet with his suppliers in two decacycles.  He damn well wasn’t going to be dipping out of this meeting early.

“What’s this?” he asked, eyeing the small, blue cubes in front of him.  This didn’t look like normal Syk.

“New batch,” High Rider explained.  “Longer high, boost to strength and performance.”

“More addictive than ever,” Riptire giggled, her shoulder wheels bouncing with the motion.  “You’ll never be short on buyers.”

Blast Off was grateful for his mask; it did a good job of hiding his disgusted sneer.  Was this really for the best?  “How much?” he asked instead.

“A hundred credits a millicube,” Pothole’s deep, rumbling voice piped up.  “Twelve cubes total.”

“Twelve hundred shanix.”  Blast Off nodded.  “That’s fair enough.”  He jacked into the deposit box on the wall, and transferred over the appropriate amount, making sure to keep one optic on the stances of his suppliers.  No one had made for the weapons; so far so good.  “Now back up.  My alt mode takes up a lot more space than I do.  I’ll be off soon as it’s loaded up.”

Three mechs scurried aside as Blast Off transformed to Shuttle mode, opening his cargo bay doors.  He always hated this part of the job.  It was undignified to carry merchandise within himself, and uncomfortable to transform with it still inside of him.  Still, it was more secure than a subspace.  Few would dare perform a full body cavity search on an Alpha.

Within a few kliks, all twelve cubes were safely secured in Blast Off’s cargo hold, and he was transforming back to root mode.  “It’s a pleasure doing business with you,” he said, shaking Pothole’s hand, wanting nothing more than to get out of this hellhole and back to his washracks.

“Same.”

~~~

He had two messages waiting for him once he was finally back on the street, away from his shady associates and their grimy warehouse.  He took small consolation in the fact that he’d never have to deal with drug addiction.  He’d seen first-hand just how disgusting the process of storing and transporting additives was.  No thank you.

It didn’t take much effort to flip through his messages as he made his way back to the relative safety of District Nine.  One was from Onslaught, of course, but the other, oddly, was from Aphelion.  They hadn’t spoken much since that first night in the Underground.  Blast Off got the sense that Aphelion blamed him for some loss of dignity, but maybe he’d been wrong.

At the very least, whatever Aphelion had to say was sure to be easier to deal with than Onslaught’s message.  It was stressful enough spending half his life in the Underground (as a flier no less!).  He wasn’t exactly keen on taking further orders any time soon, unless those orders were ‘get back to the surface.’  Onslaught could wait.

_ “Hey, Blast Off.  Long time no see!” _  Aphelion’s nasally voice sang over the comms.  “ _ And I mean that in a bad way.  You spend so much time in Kaon, I wish you would come back to Altihex.  We could use someone with your level head up on the space station.  Stardust and Polaris are much too flighty for my liking, and to be honest, I’m a little worried about you.  Spending so much time with those war frames is going to weigh on you after awhile.  Do consider coming back home, will you?” _

Home.  The open sky.  A million stars twinkling overhead.  It was a far cry from the industrial powerhouse that was Kaon; even in the upper districts, the light pollution was much too intense to see the stars.  It was very tempting to take Aphelion up on his offer.  To return to Altihex, and get a job on the space station, measuring solar fluctuations and planetary energon levels.  It was certain to be a better fit than smuggling illegal drugs to disaffected businessmechs with too much time on their hands.

But he couldn’t leave Onslaught like that.  Not now.  Not after how far they’d come.  He was far too vital to the plan.

Speaking of . . .

“ _ Blast Off, it’s Onslaught.  I assume you’re in your meeting with Pothole’s gang right now.  I’m sending you some coordinates.  Please meet Brawl there.  He apprehended our problem Rotary after a medical operation.  I want you present for negotiations.  Hurry.  Sedated or not, I don’t trust Brawl alone with that mech.” _

What was Onslaught thinking?!  This was a terrible plan!  Kidnapping Vortex?!  It was absurd!  And likely to get any or all of them killed, Brawl in particular.  Swindle had stressed that Vortex was not the type of mech one wanted to cross, and his memories of that alley behind Electric Oasis, of watching the sadistic Rotary playing with the open chest components of a mech six times his size were enough to paint a picture of what would be in store for Brawl.  Frag it all!

Blast Off ran.  He hated running; he was slow, tired out easily on the ground, and looked absolutely ridiculous while doing so.  Having a full cargo hold pushing against his internal mechanisms amplified the unpleasantness of the experience.  But Brawl could be dead by now, and Lower Kaon was a no-fly zone.  This was his only choice.

Much to his relief, it took a mere ten minutes to reach Onslaught’s coordinates – in this case, a small warehouse in District Nine.  His vents were flared, fans on at full blast, cycling the disgusting air of the Underground through his systems.  It galled him just how much energy he was wasting, but even as exhausted as he was, he didn’t hesitate to burst through the front door.  He was not about to let Brawl die.

He was too late.

Brawl’s body was the first thing he saw, sprawled out on the ground, unmoving.  He’d expected as much.  Vortex must have hit him with a surprise attack before escaping.  All Blast Off could do was hope that the Rotary had been too drugged up to finish the job.  As best he could tell, there weren’t any noticeable missing pieces or pools of energon, though Brawl’s color scheme was so muted to begin with, it was difficult to tell.  He raced over, throwing caution to the wind, and collapsed at his long-time companion’s side. 

He was alive.  His plating was dull, and his EM field weak, but he felt more like a bot in stasis lock than anything.  The relief was short-lived, however.  Sharp claws buried themselves in Blast Off’s neck cabling; a sharp jolt wracked his frame, and the next thing he knew, he was lying on his side, paralyzed from the neck down. 

A heavy weight settled itself on his hip.  It wasn’t difficult to imagine the smug face of Vortex, who apparently had decided to stick around and finish the job after all.  This was it; he was going to die.  He’d survived the Quintesson Wars, and now, his number had come up, in a dirty warehouse in Lower Kaon, at the hands of a sneaky Rotary who’d probably never even seen a real battlefield.  Stupid defector.

“Hey there, Blasters,” Vortex giggled.  He sounded more loopy than normal, and the heavy weight on his frame seemed somehow strutless.  Was he still under sedation?  And moreover, had he really taken out Brawl and Blast Off  _ both _ in such a state?  Blast Off groaned.

“What do you want?”

“Me?  What do I want?”  Vortex paused for a long moment, slumping lazily forward.  The change in weight distribution rolled Blast Off onto his back, and planted Vortex’s aft on the floor with a sharp clang and a surprised yelp.  Then came the giggles, complete with the glimpse of a rotor, bouncing jovially just out of the corner of Blast Off’s optic.

He hadn’t expected Vortex to collapse backward, lying awkwardly across Blast Off’s hips, rotors digging into the transformation seams of his thighs.  There was no way this position was comfortable for anyone, but the crazy aft didn’t seem too inclined to move.  He continued his giggle fit. 

“I’m sorry.  I fail to see the humor in this situation.”

That warranted a sharp bark followed by straight up cackling.  What the Pit was this guy doing?  Was he going to kill Blast Off or not?

_ He’s the most self-destructive mech I know . . .  _

Swindle’s words echoed in his mind, filling him with the barest confidence.  Maybe he could still survive this situation.  If he let Vortex take control, he might well prove his own undoing – not that Blast Off had much choice at the moment.  He was paralyzed, and at the mercy of a lunatic, but surely Onslaught had considered this would happen.  Surely Onslaught trusted that he would get out alright.  He remained silent, waiting for Vortex to direct the conversation.

“Sorry, I just – it’s funny, yeah?”  His voice had a distant quality to it, as though his mind was somewhere far away.  It probably was.  Had this mech been someone else, someone who was not accustomed to taking out larger opponents while blitzed off his aft, he never would have managed to take out Brawl, let alone Blast Off. 

“Funny,” Blast Off repeated, unamused.

“Yeah,” Vortex laughed.  “Y’all tried to kidnap me, but look who’s laughing now.  Brawl was so surprised when I got him.”  He wriggled around, presumably in a vain attempt to get comfortable.  Failing his mission, he instead rolled to his belly and scurried up Blast Off’s frame, peering over the swell of that generous chest plate with a glazed smile on his face.  “You woulda been so proud of me.”

“Not particularly.”

He’d half-expected some retort, but only got a sad little laugh, and a Rotary helm buried in his neck.  Any stranger walking upon the scene would have thought the two lovers.  “Don’t lie, Blasters.  I know you hate big mechs that throw their weight around.”

“Not sure what you mean,” came Blast Off’s cool reply.

“Feh, you really oughta lighten up, Blasters.”

“You have me pinned and immobile.  Tell me exactly how I’m supposed to ‘lighten up’ in such a circumstance?”

Vortex’s incessant laughter was really starting to get on his nerves.  “Oh come on, it’s not like I’m gonna hurt you.”  He forced his head up to look into Blast Off’s optics once more.  “I thought I’d made it clear that I wanna  _ join _ you.  I mean, I had Brawl at my mercy, but left him alive, ‘cause I knew it would make you sad if I killed him.”

“Paralyzing me doesn’t do much to endear you.”

“Maybe not,” he agreed, flopping his head back down and burying his fingers in Blast Off’s throat cables, gently massaging each delicate tube.  Blast Off tried not to tense up, despite the fact that this mech could rip him apart so easily right now.  How had he allowed himself to fall so far?  “But it was the only way you were gonna sit still and talk to me.  I mean, you shot me last time.”

“You shot me first,” he retorted, bolder than he felt.

“I wasn’t trying to  _ kill _ you though.”  Somehow, Blast Off doubted that.  “And I felt very bad about it later.”

“I’m sure.”

“Mmm,” Vortex groaned.  “Well Blasters, as much as I enjoy spending time together, I’d like it if you put me through to Onslaught already.”

“Apologies.  I have no intention of wasting his time on you.”

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say,” Vortex retorted, coyly.

“Maybe not, but I know what  _ he _ will say.”

“And that is?”

“He will say that you’re reckless and unpredictable, and that there is no place for someone like that in his inner circle.”

Vortex took a moment to consider that.  Even he surely couldn’t deny it’s truth.  “Maybe,” he shrugged, forcing himself up again.  This time, he folded his arms over Blast Off’s chest, resting his chin sleepily atop them.  “But on the other hand, Ons was the one who orchestrated this meeting.  Clearly he’s interested.”

Blast Off sputtered.  He couldn’t argue with that.  He didn’t know what Onslaught was thinking.  He didn’t know why Onslaught was behaving so recklessly – why he’d apparently had Brawl abduct Vortex from a medical slab, why he’d had Blast Off invest so much time and money into learning about him, why he hadn’t just ordered the little monster’s death yet.  Anyone could see he was a liability, and Onslaught had no patience for liabilities.

“Very well,” Blast Off snapped.  “I’ll comm him up, and he’ll tell you himself, that is, if he even answers at all.”

“Sounds good to me!” 

He half hoped that Onslaught wouldn’t respond as he pulled up his comm frequency, but there was no such luck.  Not only did he respond, but he did so with the smug air of someone who knew he was winning. 

_ So, it’s all going according to plan then.   _ It was a reassuring thought, at least.

“ _ I take it you’re at the coordinates?” _

“I am,” Blast Off replied, prompting Vortex to perk up, his optics brightening for just a moment, before regaining their sleepy flicker.

“ _ And is Vortex there?  Is he conscious?” _

“Yes to both.”

“ _ Switch to full vocal.” _

Far be it from Blast Off to disobey a direct order.  Against his better judgment, he switched over the call frequency; it’s crisp static buzzed from his comm.  “It’s done,” he said.  “Vortex, this is my boss, Onslaught.  Onslaught, this is Vortex.”

“Nice to meetcha!”

“A pleasure.”

Surely Onslaught didn’t mean that.  Perhaps he needed a little clarification.  “For the record, Brawl is unconscious, and I am paralyzed.  Please bear in mind that I am strongly against this arrangement.”

“Noted,” Onslaught said in that dismissive voice of his.  There was no changing his mind this time.  For some reason, he really wanted to talk with Vortex, enough so to risk Brawl and Blast Off’s lives alike.  This couldn’t be right.  Brawl was disposable, but Blast Off wasn’t.  So why, then?

Apparently Vortex was surprised too.  “Wow, that’s cold of you.  You must really wanna talk to me if you’re willing to risk your own subordinates for a shot at getting me alone.  I mean, you didn’t even have to kidnap me.  I  _ want _ to talk with you.  Literally all you had to do was ask.”

“I admit, I was expecting you to be a bit more subdued at this point,” Onslaught confessed.  “Entrusting the mission to Brawl was always a bit risky.  Thanks to you, he has become a liability.  What happens to him doesn’t concern me.  Blast Off, however, I expected better from.”

The insult stung, but it was well-earned.  Swindle had said it himself; Vortex wasn’t much of a fighter.  And he was half-drugged to boot.  Blast Off never should have allowed such a mech to get the jump on him.  He  _ deserved _ to die for such a blunder.

“That’s cold,” Vortex snickered.

“Cold, perhaps, but the truth nonetheless.  Still, I am impressed that you were able to accomplish so much after a major surgery.  I take it you’re accustomed to acting with only half your wits.”

“Oh yes, all the time!”  It didn’t strike Blast Off as something to boast about, but Vortex certainly sounded more lively as he said it. 

Onslaught had no response to that, save for a thoughtful grunt.  Blast Off would have given anything to know what he was thinking right now.  Pit, he probably would have given anything for use of his limbs back, and also to be up on the surface, away from the disgusting mech that was currently using his frame as a pillow.

“So, what was it you wanted to talk about?” Vortex at last inquired, apparently tired of waiting.

“You’ve made quite a nuisance of yourself lately.  I’ve gathered that you want to work in my employment, and you’ve gone to drastic lengths to do so.  What I don’t understand is why.  Surely a mech with your skills could get to the surface without much difficulty.  Why do you go out of your way to work for me?  And don’t give me any of that ‘I just want to fly again’ nonsense you fed Blast Off.  I have an excellent nose for sniffing out slag.  Consider this your job interview; don’t mess it up by lying to me now.”

Red optics glistened in the dim light of the warehouse.  “Job interview, eh?”  He thought about his answer for a long moment, tapping a lazy rhythm onto Blast Off’s chest as his mind worked away.  Blast Off would deny to the grave that the feather-light touches drove him the best kind of mad.

“This is gonna sound stupid,” he said at length, “but hear me out, yeah?”

“Go on.”

“So I’ve been screwing around in the Underground for three vorns.  That’s three vorns of lying, cheating, stealing, killing, and living kind of – day to day, establishing myself, earning a position of not-insignificant power.  But – I mean, after awhile, that starts to get boring, yeah?”

“You want to work for me . . . because you’re bored.”  Onslaught sounded skeptical, but Vortex remained unfazed.

“Sort of.  When I hacked Blast Off’s comm – for months I got to see him go about his daily life, and it all seemed so . . . delightfully mundane.  I thought it might be interesting to live like that.”

“It really isn’t,” Blast Off muttered, drawing a satisfied smile from the mech above him.

“You’re really cute, Blasters.  But I made it my goal to live like you, and when I make a goal, I do whatever it takes to reach it.”

Onslaught paused to consider this.  “What happens after you succeed?”

“Dunno,” Vortex shrugged.  “I’ll figure it out once I get there.  No point in planning too far ahead; it’s impossible to account for the chaos of the universe.  I imagine that’s something you’re aware of, at least.”

“I understand your philosophy, even if I fundamentally disagree with it.” 

Vortex pouted at that, an action completely missed by Onslaught on the comm.  Blast Off rolled his optics.  What was  _ with _ this mech?

“Rude!”

Onslaught ignored the childish attitude in favor of further questioning.  “So, you say that you do whatever it takes to reach a goal.”

“I do,” Vortex said, a proud smile on his lips.

“Then tell me this: everyone I’ve spoken with is under the impression that you were the one to take out Modulator.  Is this true?”

“It is, more or less”

“How did you pull it off?”

Blast Off was curious as well.  It was difficult to imagine anyone, let alone this flighty nobody, arranging the death of such a powerful figure.  If he could pull that off, he could undoubtedly do anything.  Perhaps he’d even give  _ Onslaught  _ an idea or two.

Vortex’s nervous laugh was quick to shatter Blast Off’s confidence.  “Eheh, this is gonna sound really dumb, but I . . . actually don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember,” Onslaught repeated, incredulous.

“Yup!  A berthmate of mine decided that a fried processor was a really good look for me.  Did that thing – y’know, the one every medic every warns you not to do – uploaded a circuit booster directly to my brain module . . . I mean, I guess that’s what happened anyway.  I ain’t got no clue, what with the damage and all.  I bet the fragging was real good at least, or it better have been, to make up for the memory loss.”

Blast Off could just imagine Onslaught, seated at his desk, fingers pinching the bridge of his the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in frustration.  This mech was clearly  _ not _ making a good case for himself.

“Tell me, Vortex, why should I hire you?  Blast Off is handling himself quite nicely in the Underground.”  Blast Off winced.  Perhaps it was true, but he didn’t want it to be; not really.  He much rather would have been back on the surface, schmoozing with senators, or running experiments in Altihex.  It was far more his comfort zone, not to mention significantly less morally dubious.

“Oh, I’m sure Blast Off is doing just fine,” Vortex laughed.  “But I could do better.  He’s been working the Underground for a few months, and I’m sure he’s making profits.  But me?  I’ve been down here for three vorns.  Until I blew my mission by giving Blast Off that warning, I was in very good standing with the Assassins Guild.  I know everyone who is anyone, and I’m very good at getting what I set my sights on. If you have me on your side, you won’t just be making profits, you’ll  _ rule _ Lower Kaon.  Onslaught, the new Modulator.  You’ll be beyond reproach!  And in the meantime, Blast Off can go back to the surface and play with the nobility, which seems more his game.”

Blast Off hated how much he liked the sound of that.  He knew that Vortex was bad news, but oh, how he wanted to get out of this dump.

“That does sound like quite the offer, Vortex,” Onslaught mused.  Blast Off knew that tone of voice; he was about to pull something devious. 

“I do try, sir.”  Vortex seemed to have picked up on it too.  He sounded strangely hesitant.  “But perhaps you’d like to try it out?”

“Perhaps,” he agreed.  “I just have one more question for you: does the name Archa Seven mean anything to you?”

In an instant, Vortex’s entire demeanor changed.  His fingers clawed up, digging sharply into the vents on Blast Off’s chest, in a way that was surprisingly unintentional.  His frame stiffened, his rotors clattered, and his optics grew dangerously bright.  The word meant nothing to Blast Off.  It was a planet; that much he knew, but beyond that, its significance was unknown.  Clearly it meant something to Vortex, however.  But how had Onslaught known?  Swindle, and by extension, Blast Off, hadn’t mentioned anything about Archa Seven in his earlier briefing.

“I –”

“No need to answer.  I assume from your reaction that it does.”  This was it.  The precision blow.  Blast Off couldn’t wait to see how it played out.  “As for your offer, I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.  Undoubtedly you are a very skilled mech.  You’re an expert at playing the Underground, and being goal-oriented is always a great personality trait to have.

“But the fact is, you’re unpredictable, and spare little thought for consequences, as demonstrated by your actions with Modulator.  You claim that you want nothing more than to work for me, but in taking out Modulator, you’ve inadvertently set me back by  _ years _ .  Moreover, I have no place in my inner circle for a high profile serial murderer, nor a drug addict with lethally dangerous kinks.  You are an agent of chaos, Vortex – far too variable to plan around.  I cannot allow you to work for me.”

Had Blast Off imagined it, or was Vortex trembling?  He composed himself pretty quickly, either way.  “Well, I mean, I’ve got your right hand mech at my mercy – that works in my favor, right?  And if nothing else, I know enough about your operation to damn you thrice over, so it might not be a bad idea to –“

“Don’t bother with the juvenile threats,” Onslaught interrupted.  Ooh, this was going to be good.  “I assume from your earlier statement that you’re not in very good standing with the Assassins Guild right now, are you?  All it would take, is one little hit.  Or perhaps a call to the Primal Vanguard?”

Vortex’s optics flared behind his visor.  “I’m not afraid of them!”

“And I’m not afraid of you,” Onslaught replied coolly.  “I meant what I said.  There is no place on my team for a mech with a history of disloyalty.  You’re a walking disaster, Vortex, and one I’m not willing to risk my future on.  This isn’t a game to me, like it is to you.  If you’re serious about working for me, then prove it.  Prove that you can be loyal, that you can follow orders and behave.  Until that time, however, nothing you say or do is going to get you what you want.  Good day.”  With that said, he hung up, leaving Blast Off alone in the warehouse at the mercy of the less-than thrilled psychopath above him.

Vortex was perched on his forearms, his head hanging and rotors clattering.  Blast Off had never imagined that this guy was even capable of frustration; today was just full of surprises!  He waited, hoping that Vortex would make the first move.  He wasn’t exactly keen on drawing the attention of an unstable maniac his way.

In the end, neither of them went first.

There was a sudden, angry shift of metal, and the next thing Blast Off knew, Vortex was being hoisted from his chest by the rotors, dangling limply in Brawl’s grasp.  Brawl himself seemed none-too pleased with the situation.  His optics flared orange, and his mask had been retracted, so that nothing could get in the way of his verbal assault.

“You used me!” he roared, his face inches from Vortex’s.  “I didn’t want to believe it, but  _ you _ – you made me believe – made me think that you  _ loved _ me!  But it wasn’t about me at all.  You just wanted me to get to  _ them _ !”

“Bingo,” Vortex said, unafraid, though his spark really didn’t seem to be in this altercation.

“And then you attacked me!  And Blast Off too!  What’s wrong with you?  How could you do such a thing?!  I trusted  you!”

The feeling was beginning to come back to Blast Off’s extremities, though his joints remained numb.  He forced himself to a half-sitting position, to better catch sight of this behemoth of a Tank screaming down that significantly smaller Rotary.  Complete monster or not, the visual didn’t sit right with Blast Off.  It all seemed distressingly familiar.

“I’m a Rotary, what do you want?”

“Your function has nothing to do with it!  I met plenty of Rotaries, and you’re the only one what’s tricked me, used me, then tried to kill me!”

“I didn’t try to kill –”

“Shut up!” Brawl roared, shaking the poor mech in his hands.

“Ohh, don’t do that.  I don’t feel so –”

Brawl did it again, harder this time, before throwing Vortex across the room, into a wall.  The resulting crack could not have been pleasant.  The poor mech slid down, with a weak groan, not bothering to get up.  Brawl, however, was not finished.  He crawled wearily to his feet and stomped forward, slowly and carefully, still drained from the earlier assault.  Vortex may not have wanted to kill Brawl, but the same could not be said in reverse.  Brawl had never been good at handling his emotions, and considering how very in love he thought he’d been, the behavior was not so surprising. 

Still, as that mighty Tank loomed over the smaller Rotary, wrapped his huge hand around that slender throat, and hoisted him up into the air, Blast Off couldn’t help but feel sick.  This was wrong.  He couldn’t sit around and watch his colleague, his  _ friend _ murder a mech a third of his size.

“Brawl,” he called out, his voice commanding.  When Brawl ignored him, pulling Vortex away from the wall, only to slam him back into it with all his might, he repeated the command.

“What?” Brawl hissed at last.

“Put him down.”

Brawl narrowed his optics at that, and Vortex, despite the weak glaze to his own optics, managed to broadcast his surprise.  

“ _ Why _ ?  You know what he is, what he does!  He attacked us, Blast Off.  He used me.  He’s dangerous.”

All correct, yes, but still, Blast Off couldn’t allow it to happen.  He had to think of something to get Brawl to back down.  “Onslaught never gave us the order to kill him.  Clearly, he wants him left alive, for what reason, I couldn’t possibly know.  Whatever the case, you’re already on thin ice with him; I wouldn’t want to be the mech who ruins his hard-thought plans, would you?”

Brawl’s hands shook.  Every strut in his frame was urging him to pummel Vortex into a pulp, until he stopped fighting, until his twisted spark pulsed no more – no doubt.  But he was loyal to Onslaught.  With stiff, reluctant movements, he set Vortex back on the ground.  For his part, Vortex looked a little shocked, and a lot like he was halfway to the scrap heap.

“Aww, Blasters,” he croaked, his voice heavy with static.  “You shouldn’t have.”

“You’re right,” Blast Off agreed.  “I shouldn’t have.  But I did.  Don’t make me regret it.”

Vortex looked contemplative at that, made as if to say some witty retort, then thought better of it.  He gave one last wary look towards Brawl, then scampered off without another word.

“Now what?” Brawl grumbled, as he watched Vortex leave.  He folded his arms beneath his chest, his displeasure flaring from his EM field like blasterfire.  “Wait for him to hunt us down?  Wait for him to ruin everything out of revenge?  Why’d we let him go?  I don’t like this.”

Gingerly, Blast Off forced himself back to his feet, staving off the dangerous spinning sensation in his head as his equilibrium circuits struggled to adjust.  He didn’t topple over, if only because Brawl had kindly moved to his back, holding out a huge hand to prop him up.

“I don’t either.  It’s just . . .”  Just what?  The whim of Onslaught?  He knew that Onslaught didn’t care one way or another.  He was bound to have contingency plans either way.  Then what?

_ I know you hate big mechs that throw their weight around. _

Maybe Vortex knew him better than he thought.

“I don’t pretend to know how Onslaught thinks,” he said at last.  “All you and I need to do is follow orders.”

“Man,” Brawl sighed, slumping forward, and nearly knocking Blast Off over in the process.  Fortunately, those strong hands caught him before he could fall too far.  “Sometimes, I kinda wish I could take a vacation from all these orders.”

Blast Off nodded.  “You and me both.”  For once, he and Brawl were in agreement.  Today was just full of surprises!  But today was almost over, and he still had further work to do.  He had a cargo hold full of modified Syk to smuggle across the border, and an appointment with a beta caste distributor in District One to get to.  It was bound to be a long night.

Aphelion’s offer was starting to look really good right about now.


	11. Unwitting Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swindle and Vortex are not friends, at least, not yet.

Three thousand shanix to Short Circuit for the programming.  Forty shanix a piece for Pot Hole, Riptire, and High Rider for components.  Six hundred shanix for bribes to access the Lower Kaon hall of records.  Another three hundred to the Enforcers that had come up to question him.  Six thousand set aside for potential medical fees.  Four hundred to his bodyguards for round the clock protection.  And that was just one day.

Vortex was proving quite the costly little endeavor.  By the time this comm was finished, he was going to have spent well over the twenty thousand shanix he’d charged to make it.  He may have cut costs with Vortex’s data cube, but the losses he was taking were far from worth it.  Modulator’s death had been an unanticipated blow for his business endeavors, and he somehow doubted that his new Intelligence business would get off the ground smoothly.  Blast Off was the sole reason he’d made a profit this week, but Swindle couldn’t expect a wealthy, desperate mech to come around every time he was struggling to break even.

Primus, why had he ever agreed to this foolish plan?

“Fork it over, Gear Grinder!”  Heavy Metal’s booming voice filled the tiny apartment, drowning out the distressed chirping of the lileth, and making Swindle lose count in his budgeting for next week.

“Primus, Heavy Metal!  You’d think a game of Fullstasis would be a nice, quiet activity!” he snapped, overwhelmed by his frustration.

“Sorry boss,” Gear Grinder replied, retracting his massive head into his broad shoulders.  Both of his bodyguards were in the ‘Leader’ size class.  Gear Grinder, as his name implied, was an industrial grinder, and five times Swindle’s meager height.  Heavy Metal, a battleship, was six.  Swindle’s apartment was just large enough for himself and Vortex.  The newcomers had been crammed in, unable to stand at full height in the cramped space.  Swindle had needed to shove the sofa into the corner, and put the table in his subspace just to make room for the titans.  He himself was seated at his desk along the wall, trapped by his own furniture, and trying his hardest to work with two giants seated less than ten feet at his back.  It had been a mistake to call on both of them.  They could barely move in this place; Vortex would have a not-zero chance of taking them out, restricted as they were, and that had Swindle nervous.  But leaving him alone in the place was unacceptable.  He’d spilled the beans on Vortex, and immediately after, Vortex had gotten himself in trouble.  It was difficult to think the events weren’t connected, even if it was completely plausible.

He found himself worried, despite himself, not just his own sake, but for Vortex's as well.  The mech was a walking disaster, who had been a worthless, unmoving lump on the couch for weeks.  Of course he’d get himself fucked, leaving the house in such a state.  Swindle had been happy that he’d finally recognized there was a problem, and had gone to seek treatment, but then he’d received the distress call, and any semblance of joy he’d managed had vanished in an instant.

Why had Vortex called _him_?  They weren’t exactly friends.  Swindle put up with Vortex because he was a very scary business partner, and was very good at making Swindle money, despite the trouble that inevitably followed him.  To think that Vortex had called him when he was in trouble, however, somehow made him feel guilt, a rather foreign feeling to an Underground mech of his caliber.

There was no harm in sending someone to check on him.  Not Swindle, obviously.  The fuck was Swindle going to do against someone who had taken out _Vortex_?  He wasn’t a fighter by any stretch of the imagination.  That was why he employed burly bodyguards.  

He’d sent Heavy Metal to the coordinates of the distress signal, but by that point, Vortex was long gone, and notable coliseum medic, Hook, had been unwilling to help without an unreasonable payment.  Swindle’s caring reached its limit the moment he had to spend money on it.  Whatever the trouble, Vortex could sort it out for himself.  At the very least, if he died, then Swindle wouldn’t have to go forward with this costly comm project.

Speaking of . . .

An obnoxious beeping sounded from his comm – an incoming call from his least favorite business partner.  It seemed he’d survived his trial, at least.  Good for him.

“Hey Tex!  How’s it goin’?  I see you're alive.  Tried to look for you, but, you know, you were gone and I had no clues.  You understand.”

_[Mmm,]_ Vortex groaned.  Well, that certainly didn’t sound good.  His voice was raspy; nasty static crackled from his end of the comm.  Swindle heard a cough, followed by hacking, then wretching.  What the frag was he doing over there?

“Vortex?”

[ _You . . . slag-filled glitch-ridden aft fragger_ ,] he spat between bursts of static.  The insult was too weak to have much bite, but on the other hand, this was Vortex.  Being on his bad side was no one’s goal.

“What did I do this time?” Swindle asked, his spark sinking.  He knew the answer already.  At his back, his bodyguards stopped their bickering, shifting into active threat mode.  At least they weren’t completely useless.

_[You remember, Swindle, what I said I’d do if you told anyone that info that I shared with you?]_

_I'll just have to kill ya both, if that happens._

“Err, yes.  Yes I do,” Swindle nodded, despite the fact that Vortex couldn’t see the action.  “But what makes you think I did anything?  I’ve been good.”  He doubted that Vortex would believe the lie, but it was always better to play dumb, when given the chance.  He wasn’t going to incriminate himself if he could help it.  Another burst of static crackled over the comm.

“Tex, you alright over there?  You don’t sound very good.”

More wretching.  What the frag had he done to himself this time?   _[No, you aft!]_ he growled weakly.   _[I’m not alright!  I just got the slag kicked outta me by a tank.  My head is a mess – has been since I got outta surgery, and the drugs ain’t wore off yet.  It’s okay though, I jacked some Poison from Blast Off’s hold.  Scrap head didn’t even notice!]_  He laughed, a broken sound.  

“Poison?  Frag, Tex!  That’s a joint business venture!  Don’t you dare get us on Mixmaster’s hit list for a stupid high!  You know that shit’s bad for you.”

_[Mmm, it feels so good though,]_ he hacked again.  It was hard to listen to.  Swindle would have hung up, were he not afraid that doing so would sign his death warrant.  Vortex had commed him; if he was really serious about killing Swindle, he would be here in person, at his door, gun in his lethal hands.  But he wasn’t here.  He wanted something from Swindle, he needed Swindle alive in order to get it.  It was Swindle’s chance for guaranteed survival; like the Pit was he going to drop it.

He pinched the nasal ridge of his helm, shuttering his optics, as though he could shut out the idiocy of his business partner by doing so.  “Look, what happened to you?  I got your distress signal, but you weren’t there when my guy came to pick you up.”

_[Course I wasn’t there!]_ Vortex spat.   _[Onslaught had me kidnapped from my frag slaggin’ hospital bed!  Played like he was gonna give me a job.  But no.  You_ fragged me over, you little scrap sucker!  I had a shot, and you blew it!]

Swindle rolled his optics.  “What did _I_ do?  Don’t blame your personality defects on _me_ , Vortex.”

_[It_ was _you though,]_ Vortex choked.   _[He knew, you rust-bitten spike socket.  About Archa Seven.]_

Swindle had been following Vortex’s train of thought up to that point, but now he was legitimately confused.  Could Vortex actually be blaming him for something that wasn’t his fault?  “I’m sorry, what?”

_[Don’t play dumb, my dead mech walking.  Archa Seven!  You’re the only mech down here what knows about my past, and suddenly Onslaught knows?  I don’t think so.  You ratted me out, and now I’m delightfully fragged, thank you very much!]_

“What are you even talking about?” Swindle retorted.  “I don’t know what Archa Seven is.”

There was a moment of silence, followed by biting static as Vortex forced his vocaliser to reactivate.  [ _Don’t lie.]_

“It ain’t a lie, Tex.  Yeah, Blast Off paid me to tell you about him.  I figured I’d help you get in good with VRIO by giving them enough to think they had an advantage over you.  It’s clear they don’t trust you; I only talked to Blast Off for a few minutes, and even I can tell.  So yeah, I told ‘im you have a Syk problem, I told him you’re an outlier and that the Primal Vanguard is interested in your aft, and that you’re a self destructive imbecile that is still an invaluable ally, but I didn’t say nothing about this – Archa Seven or whatever.  I don’t know what that is!”

Vortex’s voice crackled again over the comm _.  [You’re telling me my government file didn’t mention it?]_

Was that what he was on about?  Archa Seven must have had something to do with the ‘Incident’ the file had referenced, the event that had deemed Vortex unfit for use as a weapon.  But the file hadn’t gone into detail, presumably because Vortex wasn’t meant to be public knowledge.  It had contained only held the barest of information, most of it from the time he was a protoform.  “What, have you really not read it, Tex?  There’s next to nothing in there.  Wherever Onslaught found out your dirty little secret from, it wasn’t me.”

Vortex was silent for a long while, long enough that Swindle feared he may have passed out.  The sudden sound of more wretching in the background implied otherwise.  Primus, how much did this guy have to expel?

“Tex, you okay?”

There was a clank, metal on metal, followed by a weak groan.  Swindle guessed that Vortex had collapsed against a wall.   _[No, I’m not okay!]_ he sobbed.  It was a sign of just how fucked up he'd gotten himself.  Vortex was not the type of mech for breakdowns or shows of genuine emotion.  Swindle doubted he was in any state for mind games, which meant that the ‘Poison,’ combined with the sedatives Hook must have given him, not to mention the effects of the operation itself, and the physical trauma he’d suffered afterwards, were combining forces to create one messed up little Rotary.  Swindle nearly pitied him.  Would have, were he still capable of the emotion.

_[Onslaught rejected me.  I lost.  I barely even begun, and I’m already lost.  I can’t do it.  I can’t prove I’m trustworthy.  I ain’t trustworthy!  I can’t be loyal!  I’m a mess, a walking disaster what keeps fragging himself over.  Primus, I just wanna be up there – I wanna be with Blast Off, and I wanna meet Onslaught – I wanna kill Senator Ratbat with my own two hands.  I want – I just want out.]_

Swindle was afraid.  He couldn’t quite say why.  He didn’t care about Vortex.  They were business partners; that was all.  And yet, the uncharacteristic behavior had him on edge.  If there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that Vortex was the epitome of dangerous, composed – a master of sweet talking people to their doom.  He may have been a wreck, but Swindle never could have imagined him in such a state.  Would have laughed had anyone posed the scenario before this point.

“Frag Tex, why do you care so much?  It’s just a couple of losers on the surface.  You never gave a damn before.  Why now?”

_[I don’t know,]_ he cried, his voice breaking with every syllable.   _[I don’t!  Everyone keeps asking me this question, and my answer keeps changing.  I want this.  Why’s that so hard to take at face value?  Why’s everyone gotta keep askin’ me ‘why?’  I don’t know why!  I like Blast Off – I don’t have much reason to, but he’s – he changed my life.  I’d love to help him.  And this Onslaught seems like a force of nature – I just.  Is it so hard to imagine that I’d wanna be involved?]_

“A little, yeah,” Swindle admitted, to Vortex’s irritation.

_[Why’s that?]_ he snapped.

“Well, I mean, look at you.  You’re a sadistic psychopath who takes pleasure in manipulation and murder.  No one who knows you is gonna think you can be sincere about anything, don’t you think?”

More static sounded over the comm, before Vortex at last said, _[Yeah.  Yeah, I know that.  I know I’m a monster.  I like being a monster.  But I mean, I’m still a mech, yeah?  I got things I want.  I’m not some irreverent aft who’s too cool to care about anything.”_

“Kay,” Swindle agreed.  “I see that now.  I apologize for thinking otherwise.  But you gotta admit, you do go out of your way to project that image.”

_[Okay,]_ Vortex groaned.  Swindle had no idea what that meant, but he figured he may as well keep at it.

“Look,” he said.  “If Onslaught wants you to prove your loyalty, or whatever, well, doesn’t that just mean he’s interested?”

_[What’s it matter?  I can’t give him what he wants.]_

“Oh come on, Vortex.  We both know you can do anything you put your mind to.  You got _me_ giving you a pep talk, and you know how much I hate you.”

_[I guess.]_

“So there you go.  You got this, Tex.  And Pit, you ain’t a complete waste of space, no matter what that stuck up aft thinks.  I got plenty of use for you still, yeah?”

_[What’s that mean?]_ he shot back, too tired to be truly suspicious.

“It means that I’m breaking into information brokering, and there ain’t a lot of mechs what know the Underground quite like you do, yeah?  You promise I walk with my life, and help me to make back the money all this upheaval has lost me, and I’ll help you clean yourself up and get in good with Onslaught, yeah?  Between the two of us, VRIO ain’t gonna stand a chance.”

There was the offer.  He hoped Vortex accepted – that he was in a solid enough state of mind to even realize what he was accepting.  The last thing Swindle wanted was for the madmech to decide to kill him later after forgetting the deal.  But Vortex seemed surprisingly lucid as he said, [ _Sounds good to me.]_

For a moment, Swindle wondered if he’d been played again.  Had Vortex been faking his distress, or even emphasizing it for sympathy points?  He’d called Swindle, he’d clearly wanted Swindle’s help.  Perhaps this had been his goal all along?  Even broken and crazy, Vortex was still a lethal manipulator.

But what did it matter?  Both of them had what they wanted.  It was win-win.  Swindle didn’t like being manipulated, if that had indeed been Vortex’s intent, but he didn’t dislike the end result.

“Can you make it back to my place?” he asked, after a moment.

_[Don’t think so,]_ Vortex croaked back.  [ _There’s a hit on my head, I guess.  Think it might be suicidal to leave my hidey hole in this state.  I’m stuck for the moment.]_

Swindle shook his head, knowing he was about to make a decision he’d regret.  “Okay, look.  Send me your coordinates.  I’ll have one of my bodyguards pick you up and bring you back here.  You just stick around and lay low for awhile.  I’ll get everything all sorted out.  Just promise you'll do what I say.  ‘Kay?”

Vortex hacked again, before weakly responding with a, [ _‘Kay.]_

Primus, this was such a bad idea.

~~~

Vortex was really out of it when Gear Grinder carried his limp frame through the door by the rotors.  Swindle had gotten the miserable little wreck situated on the sofa, and had dismissed his bodyguards for the night, to their bafflement.  

“I thought you wanted us to protect you from him?” Heavy Metal protested.

“We’re good now,” Swindle said.  “Need a bit of privacy.  You can wait out front, check on me in the morning, or if it sounds like there’s some kind of struggle in here.  Gear Grinder, you can go home for the night.  There’s not enough room in here for all of us, and I need to talk business.  Thank you for your service.”  He transferred their payment, and the pair left.  On the other side of the door, he heard Heavy Metal making himself comfortable.  Good.  Gear Grinder and Heavy Metal may have been his bodyguards, but he didn’t trust that they wouldn’t betray him, should someone approach them with a better offer.

Once they were alone in the room, he ran to the pantry, grabbed some emergency med grade, and took a seat on the sofa at Vortex’s side.  The poor imbecile was sprawled on his back, his EM field fluctuating wildly, one arm thrown over his flickering optics.  His frame was ice cold.  Primus, he was such a fuck-up.

“Retract your mask and open your mouth,” he ordered.  Vortex did so, and didn’t so much as struggle when Swindle lifted his head into his lap, and forced the energon down his throat.  He swallowed every last drop, shuddering softly.

“You wanna throw this up, there’s a receptacle on the floor to your left,” Swindle kicked it with his foot, alerting Vortex to its location through the sound.  Vortex nodded, rolling onto his side, to face the thing.  “First things first,” Swindle sighed.  “We gotta kick this habit of yours.  Onslaught isn’t gonna want an addict working for him.  This kind of behavior is not very attractive in an employee.

“‘Kay,” Vortex whispered.  His folded tail boom and rotors were digging uncomfortably into Swindle’s plating.  He scooted away, but Vortex’s pitiable whine kept him in place.  “Don’t leave me,” he muttered, his voice soft and broken.  “I don’t – frag – I don’t wanna be alone right now.  I think, ugh, I think I might actually die.  This is worse than double-clocking.”

Swindle sighed.  He didn’t have time for a needy Rotary right now.  He had things to get done.  “I’m just going to the computer over there.  I’m still here,” he groaned.

“I can’t,” Vortex whined.  “I don’t wanna be alone.”

What an absolute idiot.  “Okay, okay.  Look, here.”  He reached into his subspace, pulling out the creepy-aft severed head Vortex had left him with.  Putting the thing in subspace had been a disgusting and all around unpleasant experience, but it was better than one of his bodyguards coming across it.  Doing his best to keep physical contact with the thing to a minimum, he shoved it into Vortex’s grasping hands.  Immediately, he wrapped his arms around it and pulled it close to his chest.

“This is me, okay?”  He said, scooting away.  “I’m not going anywhere, yeah?  I’m right here.  You’re gonna be okay.”

Vortex held the thing even tighter, curling up his knees until he was a ball of pathetic Rotary on the sofa.  “Thanks,” he whispered.

“No problem,” Swindle waved off the gratitude, already taking a seat at his computer.

“Your friendship means a lot to me.”

Oh frag.  Not the friendship card.  They weren’t friends.  They _weren’t_!  Only business partners.  Swindle was regretting each and every one of his life choices that had led him to this point, with a barely-pacified, lethally manipulative Rotary half-dead on his sofa, thanking him for his friendship.  And yet, instead of dismissing the notion, he found himself smiling, a pointless action that Vortex couldn’t even see, and in an impossibly fond voice, replied, “Same here, buddy.”

Vortex didn’t say any more, which was fine by Swindle.  Finally, he had some peace and quiet.  It was time to get to work.


	12. Insult to Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawl is having a bad day.

Brawl was an idiot.  He’d known as much for as long as he could remember.  Superiors and comrades and alleged friends had all tossed the word his way over the years; he’d long since gotten used to it.  And yet, never before had he ever felt quite so stupid as he did right now.

He’d fallen in love with Vortex.  Everyone had told him what Vortex was like, had told him he was being used, that he was too stupid to know he was making a big mistake.  And for once in his life, he’d fought back.  He’d stood up for himself, had asserted that, if only this time, he was in the right.  He’d believed in that stupid Rotary, had put his trust in a complete stranger, and he’d paid the price for it.

His spark hurt.  He remembered the pain of betrayal, when he’d set the drowsy Rotary down on his feet in the warehouse.  He’d leaned in close, ran a hand down his back, assured him that everything was going to be fine.  And the next thing he knew, he was waking up on the cold, hard floor, while that stupid little beast draped himself shamelessly over Blast Off, and chatted with Onslaught over the comm.  The anger had been overwhelming.  If it hadn’t been for Blast Off, he had no doubt he would have murdered the little manipulator then and there.  How easy it was for love to turn to hate!  Perhaps it was best that Brawl remained alone.

He was useless, violent, stupid.  There was no place for him at Onslaught’s side.  Not in this new world that hinged on competency, restraint, and wit.  Brawl may have lived on the surface, but he belonged in the Underground, a fact that was made more apparent with each day.

His neighbors continued to turn up their noses at him.  Shopkeepers refused to sell to him – when he could fit into their undersized storefronts at all.  The money he made in the coliseum was still not enough to buy furniture, or decent energon.  He was at the top of the Silver League; there was no farther for him to go.

Worse, crossing the border, a nightmare before, had only become worse after the riots.  The body checks and comm scans increased.  The guards knew and recognized him; he crossed the border every day for work, and yet they took the opportunity to remind him of his place on a daily basis, to treat him like the irrelevant Delta he was rather than a mech worthy of basic dignity.  More than ever, he wished for a job on the surface, to avoid the degrading experience.

But Blast Off continued to dance around the subject.  It would have been fine, had he been doing his job as a sponsor, but as of late, the matches were becoming more and more sparse.  He didn’t know what it was Blast Off was doing, but it was clear that he no longer had the time to care about the hindrance that was Brawl.  Brawl understood.  He wouldn’t have cared about himself either, had he better options available.

Still, Brawl was a mech, and a mech had needs.  In order to ease the biting isolation, he spent more time blowing his scant earnings at the various pubs of the Underground, chatting with the other gladiators, or the pleasurebots – his people, the only ones who understood what it was like.

“You should just move back down here,” Pinpoint coughed.  His rust had only gotten worse over time.  It had moved to his chest plate, which was beginning to flake off in a pretty gross way.  Still, Brawl would ignore his feelings of disgust for the sake of friendship.  “You don’t belong up there.  They don’t want you up there, but we want you down here.  Stay down here with us.  Move back to District Twelve.”

It was a testament to his desperation that Brawl gave the offer due consideration.  He’d wanted more than anything to live on the surface, to feel the sunlight on his plating again, but such dreams were better left for sleeping.  Reality could never measure up to whatever it was he’d thought he’d be getting.  Respect maybe?  A normal life.  But he didn’t deserve any of that.  He had been forged a Delta, and was destined to live a Delta’s life, no matter how hard Onslaught worked to change the world.

“Why ain’t you fighting in the coliseum lately?” Speed Demon questioned, leaning drunkenly on Brawl’s shoulder.  “I wanna rematch, Brawlie!”

“Don’t call me that,” Brawl shrugged off the contact, instead downing his watered-down Nightmare Fuel in one miserable gulp.  Were Speed Demon’s reactions a little slower, he would have fallen to the ground, but even drunk as he was, he managed to catch himself by clutching onto Brawl’s turret.

“Sorry, sorry!” he laughed.  “But seriously, you’re top tier in our league.  There’s a lot of money in a match against you – well, provided I win.  Which I will.”

“Fat chance,” Quake snapped.  “We all know that Brawl has no business being in the Silver League.  He’s just keeping the rest of us down.  He should be up fighting the real fights.”

“You’re just bitter you can’t beat him,” Drillbit chuckled, setting a fresh cube down in front of Brawl.  “Here, on me.  I know you’re in a bit of a financial bind right now.”

Brawl eyed the drink warily.  Drillbit was an opportunist, and even if he wasn’t, Brawl had long since learned that nothing came free.  “What’s this for?  I can buy my own.”

“It’s a pity drink, buddy,” he clapped a thick hand on Brawl’s tread.  “You’re bringin’ the rest of us down.  Figured you needed a little more liquid happiness.”

“That so?”  He grabbed the cube and gave it an experimental swirl.  McGuirkess, from the look of it.  Not exactly the cheapest of drinks.  “And what you want from me in exchange?”

“We want you to move on to the Gold League,” Quake groaned.  “Go make some real money, and let someone else take the lead down here.”

Brawl shrugged.  “I don’t know if my sponsor will go for it.”

“Aw, Brawl,” Speed Demon had crawled into his lap by this point.  Feeling uncomfortably warm all of a sudden, Brawl slid out of his seat, dropping the Speedster to the floor, and stepping around Pinpoint, his drink in hand.  Poor Speed Demon was too far-gone to be upset, instead cackling good naturedly as he stumbled back to his feet.  “Brawl,” he drawled, “ditch the sponsor.  You’re the one with the power there.”

Brawl thought about that for a moment, but no longer.  “I can’t ditch my sponsor.  He’s done so much for me.”

“Past tense,” Pinpoint pointed out, gingerly nursing his own low grade; bits of his lips flaked off with every pained sip.  

“What was that?” Brawl asked, trying not to look at the rusty paint flakes that floated in Pinpoint’s drink.  Disgusting.

“You said ‘he’s done so much for you,’” Pinpoint explained.  “But what’s he doing now?  He’s a busy mech.  Too busy for you.  Leave him.  Come back to where you belong.”

Brawl squeezed his cube in hand, pouring the thing down his throat before he had a chance to break the glass, and slamming it on the table once it was empty.  It was probably fortunate that the thing held up.  “He is a busy mech!  My sponsor can’t be everywhere at once!  Arranging my matches is just one part of his job.  He’s way more important than I am, so I have no problem waiting around for him to fix up my matches.”

“Brawlie,” Speed Demon was leaning on him again.  It took all of Brawl’s self-control to not turn around and deck the handsy little aft.  “You gotta let it go.  Sure, the guy’s busy.  But are you really supposed to put your life on hold waiting for him?”

“Them Alphas,” Drillbit groaned, taking the seat on Brawl’s far side, boxing him in.  “They think they’re so much better than us – that we exist to make them money, that we should respond to their every beck and call.  Sorry, boss!  I got a life o’ my own!”  He let out a surprisingly boisterous cackle before downing his own drink.  “Kaleidoscope, another!”  

The bartender rolled her optics, but poured a new drink for the mountainous mech.

“Yeah!” Speed Demon cheered, crawling into Drillbit’s lap this time, though his attention (and legs) remained on Brawl.  Brawl was not entirely pleased with the arrangement, but didn’t bother throwing him off.  He’d just be back again.  “You shouldn’t have to starve up on the surface!  If your sponsor’s not honoring his part of the contract, then it’s time to find one who will.  Fire your sponsor!  Fire your sponsor!”

Somehow, the drunken call was enough to start a brief chant from Drillbit and Quake as well.  Brawl was in no mood to deal with the pressure.  He knew they were right.  Their every word reflected his innermost desire.  He didn’t belong in the Silver League, and he was more than a little fed up with Blast Off’s flakiness as of late.  Were he a smart mech, he probably would have caved, would have fired Blast Off and progressed with his life on his own terms.

But Brawl was not a smart mech.  He needed someone to give him orders, and he wanted that someone to be Onslaught.  Stubbornly, desperately, he clung to the hope that Onslaught was going to change the world, and that when the time came, he would drag Brawl from this impoverished life, to come and work at his side.

_It’s never gonna happen . . ._

“Enough!”  Brawl leapt to his feet, slamming both hands on the counter.  Speed Demon fumbled to remain in Drillbit’s lap, and Kaleidoscope shot him a dirty look, but nobody dared utter a word.  “I’m not firing Blast Off.  We’re gonna change the world; you’ll see!  He needs me.  We’re gonna change the world.  Me and him.  And I ain’t leaving until the world is good and changed!”

Only a fool or a lunatic would have dared to speak against him, given his tense stance, the violence in his EM field, the rage in his optics.  Pinpoint was both.  “Brawl,” he croaked, weakly, “He’s using you.  Just like that Copter did.  All these folks do is use you, people like us, the downtrodden and desperate.  You can’t trust no one, least of all the strong.  They prey on the weak, on the poor, on you and me and us.  For your own sake, please come back.”

Brawl liked Pinpoint.  It was only for that reason that he did not deck the presumptuous little aft across the room then and there.  Instead, he directed his rage rightwards, to a more infuriating target.  A heavy shove sent Speed Demon tumbling from Drillbit’s lap and onto the floor.

“Hey!” both mechs shouted in relative unison.  Brawl, however, wasn’t here to fight.  He turned on his heel and marched out the door, his plating rattling with every step.  They were wrong, every last one of them!  Blast Off wouldn’t betray him.  Onslaught wouldn’t betray him.  He just had to trust in them, just as he had back during the war.  Everything would be fine.

~~~

Everything was not fine.  Brawl didn’t know what Blast Off thought he was doing, but it sure as the Pit wasn’t his job.  He was down to one match a month, if he was lucky.  It wasn’t enough to live on.  His only consolation was that he didn’t have to pay rent.  Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of fuel.  His tanks were running on far less than they should have been, and the longer he remained underfueled, the harder it became for him to win his fights in the ring.  He’d lost to both Drillbit and Speed Demon in their last battles, though mercifully he’d still managed to pound Quake into the ground.

Enough was enough.  It had been seven months since Modulator’s death.  That was more than enough time for Blast Off to get his act together.  It seemed that he was going to need a little prompting.  Brawl had called him last week, but it was only last night that he’d finally gotten a reply.  They were to meet in Brawl’s apartment to discuss the future.  With any luck, Brawl would be able to knock some sense into his flakey sponsor.  Then he could get back to his mess of a life.

“I’m dropping out of gambling on the coliseum.”

“What?!”  Brawl couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  “What do you mean you’re dropping out?  Why?  I make good money in there.”

Blast Off didn’t even have the decency to look him in the optic.  He was standing by the balcony, staring out into the neon lights of the city below.  “It is honestly the least profitable of all of our Underworld ventures.  I’m stretched thin enough as it is.  I don’t have time to meet with sponsors every week to discuss Coliseum matches; I can barely get down to the Underground once a week as it is.  There’s not enough time to do this, and get all of Onslaught’s other tasks done on top.  I spoke with him and we both agree this is for the best.  I’m sorry, Brawl.  I’m just stretched too thin.”

Brawl shook his head.  He wouldn’t believe it.  “What, so you drop me?!  I thought we were friends!  Do I really mean so little to you?”

“Don’t do this Brawl.”

“No!” He slammed his fist against the wall, denting it with a sharp shriek of metal.  No doubt the neighbors would complain.  Let them.  “This is my life we’re talking about here!  My livelihood!  Look around you!  I’ve been living here for over a year now, and I still don’t got no furniture.  There ain’t no energon in the storage either.  I got nothing!  I’m struggling to make ends meet because of you, and now you’re coming back to finish me off?”

Blast Off began drifting towards the door.  Like the Pit was Brawl going to let him leave so easily!  He planted himself in front of the exit, a violent fire in his optics.  “Look me in the eye and tell me that you’re gonna let me starve.”

“Don’t be dramatic Brawl.”

It took every ounce of willpower Brawl had to not lay Blast Off out then and there.  “W-what was that?  Dramatic?”

“Onslaught is grateful for what you’ve done for the cause.  Go talk to him tomorrow and he’ll set you up, free of charge.  It’s the least we can do.”

“B-but why?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Onslaught the answer to that question,” Blast Off replied, easily slipping past Brawl and through the door.  He moved with a surprising agility for his size.  “Now good night, Brawl.”  The door slid shut behind him, leaving Brawl, hungry and unemployed, all alone in his expensive, empty room.  Primus, this sucked.

~~~

If Brawl had his way, he would have barged into Onslaught’s office then and there, but it was late, and Onslaught would probably have already gone home for the day; Brawl had no idea where exactly home was for Onslaught.  Instead, he did as Blast Off told him, and waited, through one long and sleepless night.

As soon as dawn’s light filtered into his barren room, he was venturing up to District Two for his business trip.  He only got lost twice, and stopped by the local Enforcers once, before reaching his destination; he had honestly expected more.  It was his first time visiting the home office, which was buried away on the eighteenth floor of a low-rent skyscraper.  Before he’d even had the chance to ask where VRIO was, a security guard pointed him towards the elevators, with a muttered, “Eighteenth floor, second door on the left.”  Brawl wasn’t surprised; a Tank in an upscale establishment like this?  Why else would he be here?

The office itself was drab.  A cute, magenta Hovercraft greeted him from the receptionist’s desk, and directed him towards the waiting area.  Her bright paintjob brought some much-needed color to the grey that spanned every surface of the place.  Grey walls, and grey floors, grey tables and grey chairs., and grey doors.  Even the fluorescent overhead lights had the unfortunate effect of washing out what little color found its way into the room.  A series of data tablets were secured to the wall, one for each of the major war frames – Tanks, Jets, Battleships, Gunners, Heavy Transports, Rotaries, Battle Platforms, and Living Weapons – as well as a handful of other frametypes that Onslaught had presumably started servicing along the way, including Speedsters, Two-Wheelers, Hovercrafts, Industrial Frames, and Light Transports. 

Brawl would have grabbed the tablet for tanks, were he even a little less on edge than he was.  Instead, he took a seat in one of the Leader-sized chairs, adjusted the back to an angle that provided better support for his turret, and tapped a frantic rhythm against the armrest.  The receptionist spared him a glance, but said nothing, instead returning to her work.  That was fine by Brawl.  He didn’t want to talk to her.  He wanted to figure out what he was going to say to Onslaught, to convince him to change his mind.

What  _could_  he say?  He wasn’t smart like Onslaught, or wealthy like Blast Off.  He didn’t have any special skills, or really, anything that made him unique at all.  Brawl was a dime-a-dozen Tank: good in a fight, but not much else.  His past connection with Onslaught was the only reason he’d been given this job in the first place.  He should have known he’d be first on the chopping block when the time came.

His only choice was to appeal to their shared history, their friendship, and make promises to do better.  Knowing Onslaught, it wouldn’t be enough.  Frag, he was so screwed.

“Brawl?” the receptionist chirped.  “Onslaught will see you now.  Right this way please.”  She led him down a hall, and to a wide and foreboding door, grey and utilitarian as everything else in this place.  It slid open, welcoming him into it ominous maw.  This was the end of the line for Brawl.  He may have been stupid, but even he knew that there was no changing Onslaught’s mind.

Onslaught sat at his desk, elbows on the table, hands folded beneath his mask-covered chin.  He motioned towards an empty chair, and Brawl stomped forward and took his seat, glad for his own mask.  It would help hide his fear.

“High Tide, go fetch some mid-grade for Brawl here, if you will.”

“Yes sir!” the receptionist saluted, before scurrying off down the hall.

“Thanks,” Brawl muttered, hanging his head.

“It’s common courtesy to offer fuel to your guests.”  Condescending as ever.  Onslaught hadn’t changed a bit.  “It is good to see you again,” he greeted afterwards, devoid of any emotion.  “I regret that our reunification had to occur under such unfortunate circumstances.”

Brawl clenched his fists at his sides.  “No you don’t,” he snapped, but Onslaught shook his head.

“Don’t presume to know the way I think, Brawl.  You have done much for me over the vorns; I am glad to have had the opportunity to work with you.” 

More empty praise.  Brawl slammed his fist on the desk.  “Don’t lie!”

A sharp squeak sounded from the door.  High Tide had walked in at just that moment.  Brawl did not regret startling her.  Onslaught had hired this random, flimsy nobody in lieu of Brawl.  He wouldn’t deny that he was more than a little jealous.

“Thank you, High Tide,” Onslaught acknowledged.  “Please leave the energon on the desk, and close the door behind you.”

“Y-yes sir,” she chirped again, though the sound was shaken.  With scurrying little steps, she set the energon at Brawl’s side, making sure to give him a wide berth, then walked out the door as fast as she could without appearing rude.  Brawl glared after her.

“There is no need for that, Brawl.”

“You like some stranger more than me.  Why wouldn’t I be slagged off?”

Onslaught sighed, shaking his head.  “This isn’t about who I like more, Brawl.  High Tide has a very specific role that she fills for me, one that is ill-suited for one like you.”

“A Tank, you mean,” Brawl growled.

“A mech more prone to physical pursuits than intellectual.  There are many places for mechs like you, Brawl, and not all of them involve the Underground.  That is the entire point of VRIO – to resettle mechs with few skills and plenty of negative stereotypes in appropriate jobs beyond the confines of society’s expectations.”

“But we both know how you really stay afloat.”  Brawl took a small amount of satisfaction in the way that Onslaught tensed at the observation.  Feeling smug, he took a swig of the midgrade.  It was the first real fuel he’d had in months, and it hit the bottom of his starving tanks like a delicious rock.  “Oh man,” he groaned, doubling over.

“Are you alright?”

“Y-yeah,” he said, fingers clutching to the sides of the desk, redirecting the burst of pain to something a little less alive.  His tanks calmed quickly enough.  “I’ve been running on empty for so long now; it’s weird to have adequate fuel again.”

Again, Onslaught stiffened.  Maybe he actually felt guilty.  It was his fault, after all.  “Apologies.  We really should have dealt with this months ago.”

“’Dealt with?’” Brawl didn’t like the sound of that.  Onslaught, however, merely sat up straighter, lying his folded hands across the desk.

“I will be frank with you, Brawl.  You’ve served me well, been an indispensable member of my team.  You deserve honesty.”

Honesty, right.  The sentiment was nice, but he didn’t trust Onslaught to tell the truth.  Not after Vortex.  Not after Blast Off.  All anybody did these days was lie to him.  He may have been dumb, but he wasn’t dumb enough to keep falling for it.

“You are strong; that is unquestionable.  And you have made plenty of money for VRIO.  But, after that affair with Vortex . . .”  It was Brawl’s turn to stiffen, “I find it difficult to trust your judgment.”

“That was just a one-time thing!” Brawl protested.  “And it was months ago!  I know better now – really, I do!”

“Perhaps,” Onslaught agreed, “but I cannot risk it.  You’re a loose cannon Brawl, unpredictable, and that makes it difficult to account for your potential actions while I make my plans for the future.  You make us money, yes, but at what cost?  We nearly lost you to Vortex that night, and I am not the sort who likes to lose my assets. 

“Blast Off makes most of his money from smuggling, which you are ill-suited for.  Unless you register for the Gold League, which is not something I want to entertain at this venture, coliseum matches simply aren’t worth the risk that you’ll fall for another of our enemies.  I’m sorry, Brawl, but I have to let you go, for the good of the company.”

Brawl didn’t give those hated words a chance to sink in.  “No!” he shouted.  “No, you can’t do that!  I need this job, Onslaught!  I can’t afford to live as it is; how am I gonna survive without you?”

“You don’t need  _this_  job,” Onslaught sighed, shaking his head.  “You just need  _a_  job, and I’m prepared to find you one.  It’s the least I can do, after all you’ve done for me.”

“A new job . . .”  Brawl considered the words for a long second, imagining the possibilities.  Could this be the opportunity he’d been waiting for?  “Like maybe your bodyguard?”

He should have known better than to hope.  Onslaught was already shaking his head.  “Now is not the time for that,” he sighed.  “But I can get you a job in security.  I know the bank on floor twenty-seven is hiring, and –”

“No!” Brawl roared.  “No, I don’t wanna work for the bank!  I wanna work for  _you_!”

“There is no need to be juvenile.  This is a good opportunity for you.  You’ll be making Upper Kaon wages – which will be enough to finally stock that apartment of yours.  And you’ll no longer have to cross the border every day for your less-than legal job.  Not to mention the experience you will gain, which will make you further employable in the future.  Please Brawl, consider taking my offer.”

Brawl, however, was already rising from his seat, backing away.  “I – I don’t – I can’t.  I need  _you_ , Onslaught.”

“I understand that,” he sighed, impatiently.  “You needn’t decide immediately.  Please return once you feel you’re ready to take my offer.  In the meantime,” he extended his hand, in a casual wave, “thank you for your service.”

Brawl stomped from the office, so quickly, and with such rage, that the security guard stopped him on the way out, issuing him a ticket for noise violation.  Five hundred credits.  He couldn’t afford this, but what did it matter?  By the end of the week, he’d be back in the Underground.  Nobody could make him pay, once he was down there.

Working for Onslaught had been fun while it lasted, and he wouldn’t deny that he loved the sun, but he didn’t belong here.  It was time to go back home.

~~~

Today was rubbish.  Border patrol had, of course, given him trouble when he tried to cross to the Underground.  He’d offered tickets to Megatronus’s next match in exchange for passage; he was lucky that these two guards were fans.  Now he could get back to his original plan of going to the Dancing Minibot, meeting up with the closest thing he had to friends these days, and bumming engex off of Speed Demon and Drillbit until he couldn’t remember which way was up.

But no one was there.  Quake had won the afternoon’s match; they should have been  _here_.  Where was everyone?

“Hey Brawl, what brings you in today?”  Kaleidoscope greeted, pouring him a cube of low grade.

“I can’t afford this,” he protested.

“Nah, it’s on the house,” she smiled back.  “You never liked my engex anyway.”

That was true.  He smiled and retracted his mask, throwing his drink back.  It burned in a bad way down his intake, especially after Onslaught’s midgrade from that morning, but fuel was fuel, and he’d take it where he could get it.  “Thanks,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand.  With that out of the way, he gave the room another once over, wondering if anyone had shown up in the five astroseconds he’d been standing with his back to the door.  Nothing.

“Er, where is everyone?  They usually come here when Quake wins.”

“Hmm, bad mojo, I think,” Kaleidoscope replied with a wistful sigh.  Her treads drooped as she leaned against the counter.  “Business is always slow for a week or so after someone bites it on the premises.  Unlucky that it was my bar this time.”  She poured a cube for herself as well, downing it in a single gulp.

“What?  Who died?”  He’d been out of the loop for far too long, wasting his days in his fourth district apartment, waiting for missions that would never come.  Death in a popular bar was usually information that got around quickly.  He hated not knowing.

Kaleidoscope refilled both cubes, before raising her own in a toast.  “Pinpoint, may he rest in the Afterspark.”  She downed her cube again, slamming the empty receptacle on the counter with a sigh.  “And damn him for dying in  _my_  back room.”

The crass attitude was expected.  Folks died in the Underground all the time; forging attachments was pointless in a place where individual survival was all that mattered.  And yet, Brawl felt angry, despite himself.  Pinpoint had been his friend, more or less.  Brawl would never see him again, and somehow, the thought hurt.  He was a soldier.  He was used to his friends dying – friends he’d been much closer to than a booster-addled, rust-bitten pleasurebot.  Then again, back in the war, he’d had plenty of mechs to call ‘friend,’ to grieve with when their brother-in-arms fell in the line of battle, died fighting for a noble cause.  There was nothing noble about this, and no one was about to grieve for a mech like Pinpoint.  Brawl had never felt so alone in his life.

“W-what happened?” he mumbled, once the shock wore off.

Kaleidoscope shrugged.  “Dunno.  Coulda been an OD.  Coulda just been his rust gettin’ in his spark chamber.  Once that happens, you’re pretty much fried.”  She tilted her head, thoughtfully.  “You two was friends, weren’t ya?”

“Yeah,” Brawl nodded, at last taking another drink of his low-grade.  “Closest friend I had down here.  He was a smart guy.  Always lookin’ out for me, in his own way.”  A bitter laugh broke from his vocaliser.  “Wish I woulda listened more.”  He downed the rest of his cube, before collapsing on the bar; his optics flickered weakly.  What was wrong with him?  This was pathetic.  He shouldn’t have cared so much.  Nobody else did.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Just a shit end to a shit day,” he groaned, burying his face against the cold, sticky metal.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Well, I lost my job, for starters.”

“Well scrap.”  He heard Kaleidoscope’s heavy footsteps drawing away, heard her fiddling with some of the canisters behind the bar.  Whatever she was doing was a mystery to him, but he didn’t care enough to look, nor ask.  His mind was a blank, until the moment another cube landed heavily in front of his face.  The neon green glow he caught out of the corner of his optic was enough to at last make him sit up.  “What’s this?”

“It’s a Nightmare Fuel mix.  I felt the occasion called for stronger drinks.”

Brawl smiled despite himself, and grabbed the cube in hand.  He didn’t even care that Kaleidoscope’s drinks were notoriously bad.  The compassion was welcome.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I think you’re right.  Thanks.”

~~~

Brawl drank himself silly that night, chugging down five different cubes of free engex.  After the first, the mediocre taste didn’t even bother him.  He only stopped after he passed out at the bar.  Eventually, Kaleidoscope woke him with a series of light slaps to the helm, and sent him on his way.  He’d been asleep for three cycles, apparently, and she was closing up for the day. 

He didn’t want to go home, back to that barren apartment, the empty fuel storage, the prejudiced neighbors.  But he had nowhere else to go; a motel would have cost him more than he could afford, and until he picked up another job, he needed to save every last credit.  Damn Onslaught for this!

He stumbled down the grimy alleys, and along the smoke-covered pavement, following the familiar path to the district seven border.  He recognized the guards; they were the same as before – the ones he’d given the coliseum tickets to.  A brief, drunken nod, and a slight wave were all he offered as he approached.  Despite this, the pair failed to de-magnetize the gate.  Brawl was frozen in his tracks as he tried to pass.

“Hey!  What gives?  You – you know  _who_  I am, yeah?  I remember!  I gave you the – er – the Megatronus tickets and you let me through earlier.  Lemme go home.  I live in District Four.  You’d – uh – you’d oughta knowed this by now, yeesh!  Lemme through already.”

The guards exchanged glances.

“Actually,” the first, a tall, purple mech, piped up.  “We have a message for you, from Senator Ratbat.”

“Wha?”  That didn’t make a lick of sense.  Senator Ratbat?  Hahah, very funny.  Stupid guards trying to prank him, is what that was.

“You  _are_  Brawl, right?” the second chimed in.  “Brawl of Helex?”

“Yeah.  I’m Brawl,” he nodded.  Whoa.  Bad idea.  The world was spinning too much to move his head like that again.

“Yeah,” the first guard said, pulling a datapad from his subspace.  “Come back here, and I’ll give it to ya.”

Brawl stared down, unable to see his feet beyond his chest.  That was fine.  He just had to take a step backwards.  Easy.

_Crash!_

Huh, when had he gotten down here?  Brawl looked up at the guards who had gotten quite a bit taller all of a sudden.  Again, they were exchanging glances.  The purple one was even shaking his head. 

“Frag, everything hurts,” Brawl groaned, rubbing his hip.  The second guard, a garish orange and teal Tank, helped him to his feet.

“Primus, you’re drunk,” she sneered.  “I’d arrest your sorry aft if the senator wasn’t so interested in it.”

They were still on about that?  Brawl wobbled unsteadily on his feet.  “Y’all are – uh – funny, but I really should – um, I really should go home.  Gotta recharge off the – the err – the charge, y’know?  Too much charge ain’t good for the brain module, yeah?  So I need to get by.”

The slim hand of the first guard, some kind of cannon, by the look of him, slipped the datapad into Brawl’s hand.

“What’s this?”

“Best I can tell, a job offer,” he replied.  “How should I know?  It’s not my business to go snooping through confidential messages.”

“A job offer?” Brawl’s head slid to the side, jaw falling slack.  Oh, his mask was still open.  He slid it back in place, fast enough to make the first guard flinch away.

“It was delivered by his head of security,” the second guard explained.  “It ain’t an arrest, otherwise he woulda just sent his enforcers, and more official mail would be sent to your home address.  But they left it with us.  Guess he knows you’re a frequent traveler.”

“A  _job_  offer,” Brawl repeated, still not sure he was hearing that right.  “From Senator Ratbat?”

“It’s got his official seal on the lock screen – can only be opened by the sparkprint of the intended recipient.  He wouldn’t bother going that far if he wasn’t tryin’ to woo you,” the first guard added, his optics narrowed behind his blue visor.  “Lucky bucket o’ bolts.”

Brawl’s grin widened behind his mask.  “A  _job offer_!” he said a third time, increasingly excited.

“ _Yes_ ,” the second guard snapped.  “You’ve said that already.  Did you cross your circuits?”

Brawl considered that for a moment, then laughed.  Why would he consider such a silly thing at all?  “No!” he chirped.  “No circuits crossed here, thank you.”  Once more, he waddled forward, towards the gate.  Guard number one hurried to disable the magnetic field, allowing Brawl through.

“Yeah, whatever,” the guard growled.  Somebody was sour.  “Enjoy your new life.”

Brawl thought he very much would.  Today had sucked.  He’d lost his job.  He’d lost Pinpoint.  After everything that he’d suffered, he deserved a little good fortune.  And getting a job offer from Senator Ratbat, of all mechs, was better than he could have ever hoped for.  Onslaught was going to regret firing him, he’d make sure of that.

 


	13. Homesick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blast Off finds himself increasingly fed up with his situation. Why is he still here?

It had been days since Blast Off had last slept in his own berth.  He was glad to be home.  When he wasn’t playing Onslaught’s envoy to the Underground, he was pulling all-nighters at the office, soliciting nobles, businessmechs, and entertainers for Onslaught’s charity gala.  He preferred it greatly to spending his days in the grimy darkness, surrounded by criminals, but it was nice to have a night off for once.  He’d really needed one.

He found himself popping open a cube of Carpessian Forty-Two, that he’d been saving for special occasions, kicking back in his hard-light floating berth, sinking into the delicate surface, cool and cozy as could be, and turning on the planetarium – a holographic representation of the greater galaxy, which spanned the entirety of the room, spinning slowly around the wide space with himself as its center.  It wasn’t particularly like flying through the void, but it was beautiful nonetheless, peaceful, perfect.  He could have laid there for hours, watching the best view of the stars he was going to get in Kaon, indulging in his silky-smooth oils, and letting the comfort of his berth take him into idle.  This was the life.

But Blast Off was not happy.  To get here, he’d had to throw Brawl to the Turbofoxes.  It had been a necessary measure, of course.  Blast Off was overworked as it was, and when he’d approached Onslaught for a lighter load, cutting Brawl had been the only logical choice.  No matter what he did, the poor guy just couldn’t recover from the Vortex fiasco. 

That didn’t stop Blast Off from feeling guilty, however.  Brawl was a good mech, and a great soldier, and he’d been treated like a rust-bitten bucket of bolts in return for his sacrifices.  Blast Off had needed to pull out of the arrangement for his own sanity, but he didn’t want Brawl to suffer either.  He knew that there was no way to truly make it up to him, but the least he could do was offer up some nice energon and buy him some furniture.

Tomorrow.  He would pay Brawl a visit tomorrow.  For tonight, he was going to relax.

His comm beeped, but he ignored it.  Whoever it was could damn well wait.  Rest and comfort were so rare these days; they were not to be abandoned for trivialities.  That being said, he did convince himself to listen to the message left by the sender, if only to quell his own anxieties.

_ [It’s Onslaught.  I know this is your night off, and I hate to interrupt.  I know that you, more than anyone, deserves some time to rest, and it is my intent that you get it.  However, as for tomorrow – I know I had you set to lunch with the aid of Senator Ratbat, but it looks as though he’s postponed the meeting to a later date.  Tomorrow would be a good time to hook up with that contact of yours you’ve been trying to get to, since it’s freed up.  Please give him a call, when you get the chance.] _

His contact.  Swindle.  The Underground.  Blast Off groaned and offlined his optics. 

Swindle was useful – he had set up a very successful intelligence gathering business, alongside the weapons and drugs he sold, and Blast Off was sure that he had his hands in even more areas than what was common knowledge.  Forming a partnership with the merchant would be invaluable to the furthering of Onslaughts’ Underground pursuits, and Blast Off wanted nothing more than to see the ambitions of his long-time partner realized, and yet . . .

There was a time when Blast Off would have done anything for Onslaught, would have marched into the Pit itself on his word alone.  In a sense, he already had.  He trusted his once-leader, and even now, believed he was capable of miraculous things.  But Blast Off was tired.  Onslaught had promised him a future beyond his wildest dreams, provided he work for it, and work for it he had, harder than anyone else, but he couldn’t go on like this. 

Aphelion’s message ran through his head.   _ Do consider coming back home, will you?   _ At the end of the day, he didn’t have to do any of this.  His life and future weren’t riding on Onslaught’s success.  He was an Alpha; he had prospects.  But he couldn’t just give up now – not after everything he and Onslaught had been through together. 

He shook his head and sat up in the berth, activating his comm.

_ [Onslaught,]  _ he said.   _ [I’ll be there.] _

~~~

At least the meeting had been short.  Swindle hadn’t seemed incredibly enthused about the proposed arrangement or the offering price.  It was thus, that Blast Off was surprised to find the mech accepting his offer, provided he receive a temporary work visa to get up top, a simple task for VRIO.  Blast Off had gotten out of the Underground with plenty of time to get up to Mechanica’s Old Distillery in District Three, buy some high-quality Lunar Nova, and head back to Brawl’s apartment over in District Four.  He was going to make things right, one way or another.

Only, Brawl wasn’t there.  It was only natural for his house to be empty, but apparently his table had vacated too, and a pair of handymechs were in the empty room, hammering out dents and dings in the wall.  Both looked up in alarm at Blast Off’s arrival, but as Gammas, their attitude quickly shifted to subservient.

“Where’s the mech who lives here?” Blast Off asked, stepping inside.  The handymechs exchanged looks, before the first spoke up.

“You mean the Tank?  Guy moved out this morning.  It was right quick too – no warning or nothing.  One day here’s here, and the next, he’s gone.”

“And what are you doing?  I paid off this place in its entirety.  It should still belong to Brawl, regardless of whether or not he is currently inhabiting it.”

Neither mech seemed too concerned by the accusation in Blast Off’s voice.  “Suppose so,” the second mech shrugged.  “Boss told us to come in and patch up the dents.  Didn’t say why.  If you’ve got any problems, you’ll have to take it up with management.”

There was nothing left to say.  All Blast Off could do was leave a message on the management office’s transmitter and hope for the best.  He feared that, in his rage, Brawl had moved back to the Underground, and hoped it wasn’t the case.  Nobody deserved to live in the Underground.  He sent a quick inquiry to Brawl’s comm, but predictably, he received no response.  Brawl would be fine, wherever he was.  He could take care of himself.

In the meantime, Blast Off still had a cube of rather expensive high grade in his subspace.  It was strong stuff too – perfect for a Tank, but a bit much for a Space Shuttle drinking solo.  His plan to spend the night sorting out Brawl’s life had gone down the drain, a fact that he wasn’t too upset over.  Perhaps he could concoct some new and better plans – plans which still involved this cube of engex and a friend.

He opened his comm.

_ [Blast Off?] _

_“_ Onslaught,” Blast Off greeted.

_ [How did the meeting with your contact go?]   _ The question was genuine, but he sounded harried, and slightly perturbed.  Had Blast Off called at a bad time?  Well, at the very least, some good news might cheer Onslaught up.

“Well.  He’s agreed to our terms, provided we get him a temporary work visa.  The meeting ended much earlier than expected, which is actually the reason for my call.  I’ve come across a cube of Lunar Nova, which I’m looking to share.  Perhaps we could get together once you’re done with work for the evening?”

_ [I’m afraid I’m stuck here all night.  I’m sorting out the contracts with Mechanica’s for the fuel, I’ve got three different venues making offers, I have interviews with five potential PR managers, and the Office of Permits and Licensing has been pussyfooting around with my request.  I’ve got my hands full for the rest of the week, at least.  But do enjoy your night off, Blast Off.  You work very hard.  I trust you’ll take care of the visa matter tomorrow morning?] _

“I will,” he said coolly, even as his insides raged.  Rejection always hurt, even if it was for something trivial, even if there was a perfectly rational explanation for it.  He was still Onslaught’s right-hand mech; it wasn’t as though he’d been dumped.  If anything, he felt guilty for having a reaction at all.  Onslaught was working just as hard as he was, if not harder, and the consequences for any failure on his part were far more severe.  What was he doing taking the night off when there was work to be done?  “Is there anything else I can do?”

_ [Enjoy your engex.] _

~~~

The flight to Altihex would have been long for anyone else – near-impossible, actually.  The home of the Shuttles, Saucers, and other space-faring alt modes was situated on atmosphere-piercing peaks, steep enough to render climbing impossible.  And once the original city had become too crowded, Altihexian engineers, the driving force behind space bridge technology, had expanded to a satellite, locked in orbit at the planet’s rotation, rendering it a permanent fixture in the lower city’s sky.  A space elevator coupled the two for the sake of visitors, but the average Shuttle entered the old-fashioned way: by flying straight up.

Blast Off was fast enough to not only reach escape velocity, but to reach light speed, and even access transwarp streams.  For him, the journey across the world to his homeland took less than an hour, and most of that time was spent in range of the polity, dealing with procedure.  Soon enough, however, he was setting foot on the crystal-clear grounds of Altihex Station, with nothing but the gleaming dome-shaped residences in front of him, and the beauty of space above.  No one was there to greet him.  It was Altihex; unnecessary pleasantries were not customary.  Their people were loners by nature.  The sight of an empty cityscape was all the welcome needed for a mech coming home.

He didn’t intend to spend his time up here alone, however.  He had some high-quality engex in his subspace, and he was going to share it with  _ someone _ .  With hasty steps, he approached the entry foyer, allowed the security drones to scan his comm, then passed on through to the lower levels. 

Though the blessed stars were no longer visible overhead, the architects had done everything in their power to make up for it.  The halls were lit in a peculiar pattern – there was no practical utility to the design.  These lights didn’t exist to aid in visibility; any space craft worth his thrusters would have no problem navigating in darkness.  Instead, the lights set up around the corridor varied in color, intensity, and even density, ebbing and flowing to create the impression of flying past a nebula at top speeds.  Every corridor in this place was designed to evoke space travel – catching a transwarp stream, complete with the electric buzz of reality’s resistance, traipsing across the rings of a planet, or through a solar system.  The novel design was meant to provide comfort for the most claustrophobic mechs on all of Cybertron, but its beauty had the added effect of attracting a limited number of tourists every year.  To cater to these tourists, a casino had been set up in the station’s third wing, level C.  Most Shuttles hated the place, but the revenue it generated helped fund the science division’s projects, so it was here to stay.

Aphelion, a rare example of hedonism in the Shuttle population co-managed the casino in his free time – had even moved into the residence in the back.  It was here, on the floor, that Blast Off was to meet his friend.

“Blast Off, aren’t you a sight for sore optical sensors?” he joked from behind the bar.  Blast Off groaned and waded his way through a half-dozen inebriated Grounders before climbing onto one of the adjustable stools.  The noise and chaos of this place, not to mention the foreigners, used to fill Blast Off with dread, but after living so long in Kaon, the comparable quiet was a welcome change.  The view of Cybertron from the holographic windows that spanned the exterior wall wasn’t half-bad either.

“I never realized how much I truly missed this place until I was back up here,” Blast Off said with a wistful smile.  He pulled the Lunar Nova from his subspace.  “Here it is.  Lunar Nova, purchased from Kaon’s finest distillery.  It’s the one thing those Grounders do right.”

Aphelion provided the cubes (Valvoluxian Crystal, very expensive), and even poured the fuel, offering a toast to Blast Off’s return, which Blast Off modestly, if not gladly, accepted.

“So Blast Off, what’s the occasion anyway?” Aphelion asked after taking his first delighted shot of the high grade.

“Do I need a reason to come back home?”  Blast Off took the opportunity to refill both cubes, then took a slower drink this time, to savor the flavor.

“You spend so much time in Kaon these days – feels like it’s impossible to pull you away from that Grounder boyfriend of yours.  Though I suppose you don’t have to pay to import fuel like this, so it can’t be all bad.”  He downed his second cube then reached for the flagon to pour his third.

“Slow down,” Blast Off urged.  “This visit will be pointless if you drink yourself unconscious in the first hour.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed, and folded his arms on the counter, patiently waiting for Blast Off to finish his own drink.  “Fuel aside though, what could Kaon possibly have on us?  I admit that it was fun to visit, but I can’t possibly imagine living there.  Even from District One, you can’t see the stars.  It’s stifling.  That’s no way for a self-respecting Shuttle to live.”

Blast Off frowned.  “There are some things more important than comfort,” he said, though there was little conviction in his voice.

“Like love, perhaps?” Aphelion chuckled, earning him a glare.

“I’m not in love with Onslaught.  We’re war buddies and business partners; that’s all.”

“A war buddy and business partner whom you’ve thrown away a life of comfort, wealth, and power for.  If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”  He took a sip from his new drink.  When had he poured that?

“If you met him, you’d understand,” said Blast Off, but the retort was weak.  He’d never thought of Onslaught in such a way, but now that the idea had been implanted in his head, it wouldn’t go away.  Onslaught was handsome, charismatic, smart and powerful to boot.  Without the unjust limitations of his caste, he would have been a divine match for anyone.  Blast Off downed the rest of his drink, and poured another.

Aphelion was smiling smugly, as though he’d hit the nail on the head.  “Uh-huh.  Right.”  Then his smile grew somber.  “Just be careful, okay?  I know the two of you are trying to change the social order, but these caste differences exist for a reason.  He can’t love you.  And I don’t want you to get hurt, yeah?”

“My hero,” Blast Off groaned, though the words stung more than they ought to have.  If he found himself attracted to his partner, then like the Pit would he allow society, of all things, to stand in his way.

“I’m serious!” Aphelion protested.  “Lots of powerful folks out there would do  _ anything _ to keep the uh – to er, uphold the system we have now.”  It seemed the engex was finally starting to take effect.

“Believe me, I’m aware.”  He was beginning to feel the engex kicking in as well, dragging his mind down with it.  He shook his head and finished his cube.  Now was not the time for an existential crisis.  “But I came up here to get away from Kaon and all that nonsense.  Let’s talk about more pleasant things.  Altihex.  You said you were inducted into the Science Guild?”

Aphelion’s optics lit up at this.  “Oh yes!  And let me tell you, it isn’t what it used to be.  Once Lunattic and Solar Wind retired, the whole department fell apart.  We’re sending more kids to study science planetside than ever before, as our own reputation falters.  We need somebody like – like you.  All no nonsense and stuff.  Stardust and Polaris are smart, but they’re just too flighty.  You’d be a nice balance to that . . .”

The conversation continued throughout the night, long after they’d emptied the cube of Lunar Nova.  Aphelion had allowed Blast Off to stay the night in his guest room, but in the morning, he had to regretfully bid his homeland goodbye, in favor of returning to the boisterous squalor of Kaon.  Aphelion’s words, however, lingered in his mind.

_ If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. _

Did he love Onslaught?  He’d given up his own future to pursue Onslaught’s dream; he’d convinced himself it was for a chance at an even greater future, but was it truly?  What did he want out of this endeavor?  Money?  A legacy?  Something more?  And whatever it was, was it really worth living a life he hated? 

Surely it must have been.

The early hours of his shift flew by quickly.  As promised, he secured a work visa for Swindle, and sent it to his comm.  Then he had to talk down the management from Brawl’s apartment, who were insisting they had the right to sell a vacant space.  From there, it was three interviews with clients seeking job placement, none of whom were actually veterans, but that was more common than not these days.  The rest of the workday would be spent digging up prospects for these three, but that could wait.  It was lunchtime, and no doubt Onslaught needed a reminder to refuel.

He grabbed a decanter from the fuel station outside of Onslaught’s office, then slipped inside.

As expected, Onslaught was seated at his desk, half of his attention directed on a comm call, while the other half was focused on the computer in front of him.  Despite his preoccupation, he nodded to Blast Off upon his entrance.

“Yes.  Yes, I understand that, but – yes . . . no, I’m afraid we don’t – you what?”  He waved Blast off in, directing him to the seat across his desk.  “Understood.  Thank you for your time, sir.  I will get right on that . . . Yes, you too.  Goodbye.”  He let out a heavy sigh, reaching for the decanter and pouring off-brand mid-grade into an empty cube on his desk.  “Thank you Blast Off,” he said, before taking a drink.  Blast Off couldn’t help but stare at those thin, silver lips, that exposed throat, moving slightly with every gulp.  Once he realized what he was doing, he rushed to avert his optics.

“Is everything okay?” he asked instead, trying his best to sound casual, and not like he was resisting the insistent urge for his cooling fans to activate.

“Venue owner’s being a stickler on these upped insurance rates.  This one, however, is at least willing to give me a chance, so I suppose that is a definite positive.”

“I wonder if it might be a better idea to let  _ me _ deal with the upper-class twits.  It’s much harder for them to pull that with an Alpha.”

Onslaught, however, shook his head.  “No, I have something else I need of you.”

Blast Off froze, frame cooling as a sense of dread took over.  There was only one thing he could do that Onslaught could not.  “And that is?”

“We need to be able to fund this gala without taking too severe a blow to our own profits.  I would like you to move to the Underground full-time until the time of the gala.  We need every source of income we can muster at this point; suppliers are not eager to charge our business the normal cost.  They don’t like us or what we do, and even you cannot change that.  You can help us better from down there.”

_ He can’t love you. _

Was it worth it?  Was whatever he thought he was getting by staying at Onslaught’s side worth a life spent in the cramped, filthy, desperate Underground?  “What about Swindle?” he protested.  “I just secured a deal with him.  He can run the Underground side of things.”

“Swindle is the merchant, correct?  I find it hard to believe that he won’t be squeezing us for every last credit he can.  You’re the only one I trust to do this.

_ No. _

No, it wasn’t.  Even if Blast Off  _ did _ love Onslaught, it wasn’t worth misery with no foreseeable end.  He couldn’t do this.  “I’m sorry, Onslaught,” he clenched his fists and replaced his mask, “I can’t.”

Onslaught sat up straighter, cocking his head.  “You can’t?  Blast Off, you  _ must _ .  You’re the only one who can.”

But Blast Off shook his head.  “Then I don’t want to.  I’ve reached the limits of my patience, Onslaught.  I can’t keep going back to that wretched place.  I told myself never again after the first time, and at your behest, I’ve broken that promise time and again, and I can’t take it anymore.  I’m sorry, Onslaught.  I love you, I respect you, I appreciate the gravity of what you’re trying to do, but I can’t keep doing this.” 

With that said, he turned on his heel, ignoring Onslaught’s protests, ignoring his own welling feelings of guilt.  Changing the world had been a fun dream, but he hadn’t been prepared for the reality of such an impossible task.  It was time to go back home, to the life he’d been made for. 

 


	14. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onslaught's life is falling to pieces around him. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Onslaught’s life was falling apart.  It was a circumstance he really ought to have foreseen, all things considered.  But he had grossly misestimated Blast Off’s loyalty, patience, and willingness to put up with the hellish life of the Underground.  Maybe Onslaught  _ should _ have taken Vortex up on his offer.  Maybe he shouldn’t have cut loose Brawl.  Maybe he never should have started VRIO in the first place  – never tried to go against the grain as he had.

His business was dead without the supplementary Underground income.  His profits from the surface were nothing to sneer at, but the cost of running two offices in Upper Kaon as a War Frame took up the majority of his funds; it was not enough to keep up with his cost of living, and  _ definitely  _ not enough to fund the gala.  

It was too late to back out now.  Senator Ratbat was a confirmed guest.  He’d booked a venue, a caterer, a handful of Upper Kaon charities to donate the proceeds to  – if the event failed, it would reflect poorly on his business, on his character, and may well spell the death of his career.  Without Blast Off, he was dead.

He needed a replacement.  He needed his right hand mech.  He needed so very many things that he didn’t have, and for once, his strategist’s mind was drawing no solutions.  Blast Off wasn’t answering his comms, nor was Brawl, and outside of those two, he had no contacts in the Underground.  He was much too busy to go himself, and even if he could have, his presence on the surface was still too unsteady to risk being caught in illegal dealings.  But he didn’t trust any of his current employees enough to send them in his stead.  He was stuck.

He slumped forward on his desk, blindly groping through the drawers in an effort to find the engex he kept stashed away for such an occasion.  A stiff drink was exactly what he needed right now.  His fingers wrapped around the neck of the flask, and without looking, he effortlessly poured it into the cube at his side, before replacing the half-empty bottle back in the desk.  He didn’t drink it.  Sitting up was too much effort.

_ How are you going to get yourself out of this mess, Onslaught? _

He’d have to book a trip to Altihex and convince Blast Off to come around.  It wasn’t ideal, but that was his best option.  He forced himself to sit up, and hit a button to his left, activating his holographic computer monitor.  Retracting his mask and taking a sip of his engex, he navigated the datanet, searching for a travel service that would sell cheap shuttle tickets to Altihex.

_ [Sir!] _

He flinched at the sudden call on his comm.  It should have been expected; he was still at work, but he wasn’t ready to go back yet.  Not that he had a choice.  “What is it, High Tide?”

_ [Your sixteenth cycle appointment is here.] _

“Appointment?  I don’t recall greenlighting that.”

_ [It has your rub-sign on it,]  _ she replied.

Perhaps he had signed off without paying attention.  It was uncharacteristic behavior for him, but he had been under a lot of stress lately.  The chances of his mental health taking a nosedive were not low.  “Do reschedule them then, won’t you?  Tell them I apologize, but that the appointment was a mistake.  I am simply too busy to see new clients right now.”  That wasn’t a lie.  With the way things were going at the moment, he needed to be working every second of every day to pick up even a little of Blast Off’s slack.  Already, he had wasted too much time for the day.

_ [Understood sir.  High Tide, out.] _

He liked High Tide.  She never asked too many questions.  It was a good trait for a lackey, and the very reason why he had hired her.  Onslaught had every faith that she would turn away the stranger, allowing him time to get back to work.  His attention returned to his monitor.

_ Cheap Flights to Altihex!  Starting at 500 Shanix! _

Five hundred shanix was not cheap.  It was a risky investment.  If he couldn’t bring Blast Off back, then he wouldn’t be able to afford fuel for the month.  Of course, he wouldn’t be able to afford fuel next month either, if he didn’t get Blast Off back.  Decisions, decisions.

He navigated to the booking page, looking for the soonest flight.  Tomorrow  – tenth cycle: nine hundred shanix.  Perhaps not.

A knock sounded at his door, jarring him from his activities.  Had his battle system not been disabled upon his return, his weapons would have been online and prepped for attack.  But he had no weapons.  Someone was at his door, and he had a fair guess as to whom.

He activated his comm.  “High Tide!  I thought I told you to get rid of him.”

High Tide however, didn’t answer.  That wasn’t good.  Carefully, Onslaught rose to his feet, and moved as quietly as he could to the entrance, prepared to grab whoever was, by the sound of it, trying to hack the door to his office.  This time, he opened a sub-comm to his security channel.

_ [Security, I have a code four.  Please report.] _

Still, there was no answer.  Frag it all, he did not need this.

At last, the door slid open, and a small blur of grey and teal darted into the room, only to be scooped from the floor by its rotor array.  

“Well, well,” Onslaught growled.  “Look who can’t take a hint.”

“Oh, I can take a hint,” Vortex purred, spinning slowly in Onslaught’s grasp, like a mobile, “that’s why I’ve been away for so long.”  Onslaught gave him a sharp shake, in an effort to still him.  All he got was an amused laugh for his trouble.  Of course.  It couldn’t be that easy.

On the other hand, this might be a nice opportunity if he played it right.

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Vortex replied cheerfully.

“And you know my answer.”

“That was six months ago.  I’m a changed mech!”

Onslaught sighed, shaking his head and moving towards his desk with Vortex in tow.  “I find that hard to believe.”  He dropped the surprisingly limp mech in a chair, then made his way around the desk to take his own seat.  In that brief time, Vortex had re-planted himself on top of the desk, leaning over the monitor and peering at Onslaught’s private business.

“Flights to Altihex, eh?  I hear it’s a lovely place.”

“Off the desk.”

Much to his surprise, Vortex obeyed, sliding back into the chair, and adjusting it to his rotors with a familiar ease.  “Whatcha gonna do in Altihex?”

“That is none of your concern,” Onslaught shot back, disabling the display.  “Now, let’s talk about you, being here, in my office.  And while we’re at it, let’s talk about why my receptionist and security guards aren’t answering my comms.”

“What slackers!” Vortex laughed, though he clearly didn’t expect Onslaught to believe the lie.  He casually added, “I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you think.  You said I had to prove I could be loyal if I wanted to join you.  Killing your employees isn’t something a loyal mech would do.”

“So . . .?”

“So I knocked ‘em out!”  It wasn’t hard to imagine the joyful grin behind his mask.  “I’m pretty adept at that.  Just gotta get close enough to get my claws under their plating.  The throat cabling is the easiest spot, since all signals from the brain module have to travel through your spinal strut.  And it’s just so delightfully vulnerable!”

“You knocked out all of my security guards . . .”  Onslaught gave Vortex a suspicious glare.  “I find  _ that _ hard to believe as well.”

“I’ve always been praised in the past for my ability to accomplish the unbelievable!”  At Onslaught’s unimpressed glare, he added, “Well, I hacked the comm system.  Took out the front desk and like, one guard, but the rest don’t even know I’m here.  Pretty clever, huh?”

Surprisingly so.  Onslaught found himself smiling, despite himself.  “So Vortex, why do you think I’ll hire you now, when I refused to six months ago?”

Vortex fiddled with the chair, replacing the backrest and spinning the whole array around, all so he could rest his chin and hands on the thing.  His optics glinted slyly behind his red visor.  The mech looked like the Unmaker himself, stuffed into a mortal frame.  “I told you, I’ve changed a lot since then.”

“Do tell,” said Onslaught, taking a sip of his engex.  If Vortex wasn’t going to treat the meeting with professionalism, then neither would Onslaught.

“Well, I haven’t had any Syk for a whole week!”

“A week.  It’s taken you six months to go a week without Syk.”

“Don’t knock my accomplishments, Ons.  It’s not nice.”

“Not sure I’d call it an accomplishment.”

This time, his mock pout was obvious.  He rocked side to side in the chair.  “Of course it is!  One week without Syk!  Three days without maiming someone  – well, outside of work anyway.  I’d say I’m making a lot of progress!  Swindle’s been helping me stay on the level.”

“And I’m sure he’s doing a lovely job.”  Swindle.  Wasn’t that Blast Off’s merchant friend?  “Clearly you’re not here because you’re a changed mech.  Why have you chosen now, of all times, to come to me?”

“Aww, nothing gets past those optics of yours,” Vortex grinned.  “I promise, I’ve been good.  I’ve cut way down on the blatantly illicit activities.  Swindle can attest to that.  I even made my way up here perfectly legally  – well, more or less.”

Onslaught raised an optic ridge.  “And what does that mean?”

“I got me a legit comm!  A new identity.  Proper member of the military and everything.”

This complete and utter monster!  Onslaught’s fuel heated, his fists clenched, if only slightly.  Here was a freak with the audacity to try and erase the past  – took pride in erasing his vile misdeeds.

_ Don’t lose your cool, Onslaught.  Don’t let him goad you. _

“You okay there, Ons?  Did I say something wrong?  I promise we did a good job making the thing.  It’s scrutiny-proof.”

“I’m sure,” the biterness overwhelmed Onslaught’s voice, but already his temperature was cooling.  Vortex wasn’t worth snapping over.

“Wait, is this about Archa Seven?”

Onslaught stiffened.

“Oh, I guess it is.  You know, I was meaning to ask you about that.  I figured it was because you were some military bigwig, so of course you’d know, but I did a little research.  That disaster’s been wiped from the record, which means . . .”  He withdrew into himself, a nervous twitch to his rotor.  So he wasn’t a complete idiot.  “You were there.”

“Perhaps I was,” Onslaught said, forcing himself to relax.  “What’s past is past.”  Now he just needed to make  _ himself _ believe it.

“Er, if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t, but Onslaught didn’t want to talk about this right now.  He wanted to talk business.  “So, what you’re saying to me, is that you faked a comm in order to operate in Upper Kaon, just so you could meet me without difficulty.”

“That was the plan, yes!”  He perked up a bit, sitting taller in his seat.

“Very well.  I suppose it takes dedication to do such a thing.  I’ll give you a second chance.”

Much to Onslaught’s surprise, he was met, not with enthusiasm, but suspicion.  “What, really?” Vortex said with narrowed optics.  “Why?  I thought you saw me as a liability.  And I don’t feel like I’ve done an incredibly good job of convincing you otherwise just yet.  What’s up?”

Hmm, the fragger was perceptive too.  Interesting.  “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time.  Blast Off has resigned  – ”

“Ooh, I knew he’d do that.  Nobles don’t like playing in the gutter.”

“Yes, thank you,” Onslaught growled.  “I am aware of my own role in his resignation.”

“Sorry . . .”  This apology was likewise unexpected.  Vortex may have been a force for chaos, but he definitely understood how to work a conversation partner.

“The fact remains, my business is in a precarious state.  I have no one to run the Underground side of things, and I have my hands tied up here with my attempts to put on a charity gala.  So, here is my offer, since, if nothing else, you seem to be a goal-oriented sort that is surprisingly adept at accomplishing small miracles.”

“Hmm, ‘adept’ is a good word.”  He laughed at Onslaught’s subsequent glare.  “What, I’m listening.”

“If you are able to ensure the successful completion of my scheme to turn Senator Ratbat into an ally, if not a puppet, then I will give you a second job interview.”

“Aw, so this is like, a test run.  I dig that.”

“I’m glad.”

Vortex retracted his mask, his smile broad and clear.  “Why Senator Ratbat, if I may ask?  That seems a tall order for someone just starting out.”

“True,” Onslaught conceded, “but he is the most dangerous obstacle to my success.  If I can subdue him, it will be easy to expand from there.”

“What exactly is your end goal?”

How interesting.  Even Blast Off hadn’t asked him that question.  It seemed almost a shame to speak such a thing aloud.  “Power,” he said slowly.  “The position I deserved was denied to me, simply by virtue of my birth.  I intend to get my revenge by becoming far more influential, wealthy,  _ powerful _ than any military general could dream of being.”

“Ah, so world domination then?” Vortex laughed.

“Something like it.”  It sounded stupid when said in such a way, but Onslaught couldn’t deny that he longed to rule.  And Vortex, at least, seemed excited by the prospect.

“Sounds fun to me.  I’m in!  I promise, by the end of your gala thing, Ratbat will be yours.  Maybe I’ll throw Blast Off in as a bonus!”  He chuckled, spinning the chair around again, to lean back in it.  “This is gonna be good!”

“I do hope so,” Onslaught said, unable to resist his own grin.  The meeting had gone surprisingly well, all things considered.

“Well, then how do we wanna seal this?  Maybe you, me, on the desk?  You look like a rough one.”

And there he went, ruining the moment.  “Go,” Onslaught said, snapping his mask shut.

“Sorry, what?”

“We’re business partners; nothing more.  As far as I’m concerned, we’re done here.”

“Okay, I get the rejection, but really?  Not even a contract?”  Vortex let his own mask slide shut, with a resigned sigh.

Onslaught shook his head.  “This is not the sort of thing I want on record.  Don’t worry; I’m a mech of my word.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Vortex laughed in return.  He hopped to his feet, offering Onslaught a hand instead.  Carefully, Onslaught took it, giving the small thing a quick squeeze, before pulling away.  Like the Pit was he going to allow this mech close enough to hack him.  Vortex, of course, seemed quite amused by the whole affair.

“Well then, I look forward to doing business with ya!  I’ll just . . . see myself out!”  He turned in a lavish way, walking with a sway to his hips, as though to direct Onslaught’s gaze straight to his aft.  Onslaught could only shake his head.  What was he getting himself into?

“You get my comm when you hacked the system?”

“Of course,” he laughed, looking over his shoulder.  

“Then I’ll be in touch.”

Vortex offered him a wave, then strolled out the door, letting it slide shut behind him.

It was a mistake to trust Vortex  – the desperate action of a desperate mech, but it was the best chance Onslaught had, certainly better than trying to convince Blast Off to slide into his old position.  Vortex might well abandon him  – at worst, go straight to Senator Ratbat with Onslaught’s scheme on his lips, but should that happen, he would only be damning himself.  Onslaught wasn’t foolish enough to assume that Vortex would never turn on him, but for the moment, he was certain it was alright to put a fair amount of confidence in the guy.  His résumé, at least, was an impressive one.

All he had to do now was get back to his gala, work out a few new schemes, and profit greatly.  It would be risky, but for the first time in days, Onslaught felt he might have a chance of redeeming his life.  

It was time to get back to work.


	15. Trifecta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vortex is on a mission, but who says he can't have a little fun on the way?

Vortex wasn’t entirely certain how he’d gotten himself into this situation.  One day he was on the run, maintaining a low profile, staying in abandoned houses (admittedly, he was responsible for the tragic demises of the owners more often than not), and now here he was, banging Catalyst, the most powerful mech in the Underground, and one who had wanted him very dead until only a few minutes ago.  Onslaught was a crazy slag sucker for suggesting this, but so far, it was proving a rather successful venture.

It helped that Catalyst was a legend in the berth.

He was one of those older model X-Wing Jets  –  sleek black with aqua lines, sharp features, flappy little wings, and of course, outdated equipment.  His valve was impossible to frag through normal means, but his spike?  Oh sweet Primus, it was a fucking otherworldly experience, to feel all of those dozens upon dozens of writhing little cables inside of him, looking for sensitive points to connect with, to channel their growing charge.  It lacked the wet fun of transfluid, but oh the electricity!

Of course, the mech’s sharp claws, gruff voice, and punishing motions were all uniquely suited to Vortex’s pleasure.

“How long I’ve waited to have you here on your knees - begging my forgiveness.  Beg!” he commanded.

“I-I’m sorry master!” Vortex squealed, eagerly playing the part of the cowed slave.  Both knew it to be an act, but that wasn’t a problem.  A sharp blow to the head sent Vortex flying over, and Catalyst’s lithe frame was quick to follow him, sharp pedes pressing themselves into the small gap in Vortex’s chestplate, inflicting a surprising amount of damage on the delicate wiring within.  Vortex writhed towards the pain.

“I don’t appreciate being used, least of all by a mech so beneath me as you.”

Vortex whined in response.  Earning him a sharp kick to the jaw.  Oh Primus, yes!  He let his head lie limply on the ground, while Catalyst made a quick job of pouncing to join him.  He was surprisingly powerful for a jet of his size class  – not any bigger than Vortex, a bit more lightweight even, but he sure was good at pinning his victims.  He pressed his arm against Vortex’s throat, and leaned in close, letting his ventilations cool the protoform of Vortex’s face.

“Well?  What do you have to say?”

“I-I’m sorry, Master.  Please forgive me!”

As a reward for his complacency, Catalyst dug sharp fangs into Vortex’s lower lip, hard enough to spill energon.  He was quick to lap it up  – and oh, wasn’t that delightful?  Vortex strained against the mech, trying to grind their arrays together.

“Hmm, why should I reward your insubordination Vortex?  You’ve betrayed me.  I don’t make a habit of pleasuring traitors.”  He let up on Vortex’s throat cabling - a silent command to speak.

Vortex responded by throwing himself upwards, into a deep and aggressive kiss, which Catalyst responded to in kind, at least for a few nanokliks.  Then he was shoving Vortex right back to the hard ground.  “Well?”

“Heheh, do we have to talk business  _ now _ ?  You know how hard it is for me to focus when you’re pounding me like that.”

Catalyst frowned as he took in the words, a thoughtful look in his yellow eyes.  “How about this then?”  There was a sharp hiss, as panelling slid out of the way, and the next thing Vortex knew, those sweet, sweet cables were making a nice show of fondling his own array, slipping behind seams  – one even managed to make its way past his valve cover, twirling around his entrance, as though getting a taste of him.  Vortex couldn’t stave off the sharp buck of his hips, and the retraction of his interface panels was quick to follow.

“Frag!” Vortex hissed.  “You’re the only one what can make me do that with just a touch.”  Was it true?  Who knew?  Vortex could hardly remember all the mechs he’d slept with over the vorns.  Right now, it may as well have been.

“Then I wonder how you’ll react with more than a touch.”

“I think you know,” Vortex grinned, spreading his legs farther apart to give Catalyst more room.  He was used to taking big mechs, but Cataylst did a lovely job of pushing his limits, with the roving cables stretching him wide, pulling him apart from the inside, and all the while filling his every node with undiluted electrical charge that left him writhing and screaming.  He always did love interfacing with Cataylst.

Subjected to such intense stimulation, Vortex never had a chance.  He overloaded not once, nor twice, but three different times before Catalyst was finished.  Only the first had been entirely pleasurable, though he tolerated the over-stimulation to his poor, abused valve admirably.  Anything to make the plan work.

Catalyst withdrew, rolling to his side with a pleased little sigh, as Vortex lay half-conscious, all sore, and unable to control the incessant twitch he’d developed.  He wasn’t sure whether or not he enjoyed this part, but for Onslaught’s sake, he’d pretend that he did.  “Well, that was . . . wow,” he sighed, his voice staticky and broken.

“Don’t flatter me, Vortex.  I’m still waiting for my reply.”

Oh yes.  That.  The part of the plan that required intense mental wherewithal while drained from an excess of charge.  No problem.  “What was the question?”

In an instant, Catalyst was back on top of him, sharp claws dancing downwards, ghosting over Vortex’s deactivated spike casing, before slipping back into his valve, scratching at the oversensitized nodes.  It hurt, and not in a good way.  Vortex stiffened.

“You know I’m kidding,” he choked out.

“And  _ I’m _ impatient,” Catalyst retorted.  “You’ve put yourself in a very . . . vulnerable position, Vortex.  I’ve been trying to hunt you down for months now.  What makes you think I won’t take you out now that I have you?”

“Well, you  _ could _ ,” Vortex agreed with an involuntary shiver of anticipation.  “But where’s the sense in that?  I’m more useful to you alive, am I not?”

Catalyst snorted.  “I seem to recall you manipulating me into assassinating Modulator so that you could get a discount on a fake comm from Swindle  – yes, I know about that,” he said, before Vortex could interject.  Instead, he forced out a laugh, far more chipper than he felt at the moment.

“Heheh, guilty as charged.  But who cares about  _ my _ motives?  You got what you wanted out of the deal.”

“A destabilized empire?” Catalyst mocked, digging a claw in again, causing Vortex to moan.  He couldn’t do this again.  His frame couldn’t take it, and he really didn’t like the idea of being fragged to death . . . actually, it wasn’t the worst way to go.

“Well yeah.   I mean, so what if you haven’t been able to fill the void left by Modulator,” he smiled casually, trying to control the flare of arousal as Catalyst’s claw shattered the node he was working at  – he kept right on digging in, even as energon began trickling from the wound.  What would happen if he let one of his cables wander around in there?  It might have been worth it to goad him into trying.

_ Focus, Vortex. _

“Who  – er, who cares about that?  You got something better.”

“Did I?”  His voice was smooth, dark, dangerous.  He withdrew the claw from the incision he’d made, instead working his way deeper, finding a new node to poke at.  As fun as this was, Vortex figured he better hurry with the schmoozing if he ever wanted to use his valve again, at least without extensive surgery.  Hook was so stingy.

“Y-yeah,” he sighed.  “Think about it.  Now that Modulator’s out of the way, all sorts of mechs are racing in to try and fill the hole he left  – the competition is fierce; everyone wants the power  _ he _ had, after all.  Richest mech in the Underground’s nothing to sneer at.  But you got all these mechs willing to do anything to reach the top, well, I’m sure business has been good for you lately.”

The claws stopped in their digging.  Damn.  “I can’t complain.”

“Exactly,” Vortex agreed.  “Folks want assassins more than ever.  And at the same time, the dangerous instability has dissuaded nobles from playing around down here.  Blackjack’s taken a huge hit - the only sure profit he gets from the coliseum these days is Megatronus.  I mean, to be fair, Megatronus is the most famous gladiator of all time, but between the two of you . . .”

Catalyst withdrew his fingers, to Vortex’s intense relief and mild disappointment.  Gingerly, he let his interface covers slide shut.  A sultry laugh rang out from his partner.  “You always were my favorite,” he smiled, giving Vortex’s jaw a sharp nip before pulling away.  “And you’re not wrong.  With Modulator’s death and Blackjack’s . . . financial troubles, I am the most powerful mech in the Underground.”

He rose to his feet, and Vortex tried to follow, though he only managed to sit up on the floor.  His poor frame just wouldn’t respond to his inputs.  Stupid, useless thing.  Catalyst glanced down at him, a stern look in his yellow optics.  “I expect more prudence from you in the future, Vortex.  I am not your pawn.”

“Aye aye captain.”  He offered a lazy salute, which Catalyst let slide.

“I’ll drop the hit and let you back into the guild, but if you cross me again, know that I won’t be so forgiving.”

“Aww, you’re so generous.”  He felt more sincere than he sounded.  All he’d desired when coming here was to ease the bad blood between himself and the Trifecta (that really wasn’t a suitable name anymore, was it?).  Getting his old job back was an unexpected bonus.

“You’re welcome,” Catalyst replied, with the barest hint of a smile on his lips.  He pulled a cleaning rag from his subspace and began to wipe himself down with a clinical detachment.  Vortex would have taken it as his cue to skedaddle, but his poor frame wouldn’t cooperate.  Instead, he flopped back down on his back, grunting as his rotors bowed beneath him.

“That worn out, eh?”  A smug laugh escaped Catalyst.  Vaguely, Vortex could hear him walking towards the crowded shelves that lined the wall of his room, digging through the data pads stored within.

“Mmrf,” was Vortex’s grunted reply, earning him further laughter.

“Gotta say, you’re making me feel quite good about myself.”  There was a heavy thud as a data pad landed square on Vortex’s chest.  Again, he groaned.

“Why are you throwing things at me?”

“If you’re going to stick around for awhile, I figured I may as well drop another favor on you.

“What’s that?”  He lazily groped for the pad and flicked it on, blearily reading the text that appeared on the screen.  Well,  _ that _ wasn’t ideal.  He let it fall from his hands, and back to his chest.  “How’d you find out about Onslaught?”

“I’ve been tracking your movements.”

Vortex snorted.  “So you knew where I was and what I was doing, but you couldn’t figure out how to kill me.”

“Consider it a compliment,” Catalyst replied, though his words were strained.  “But surely you can see my . . . concern.”

“Ah, yes,” Vortex agreed.  “The shanix reflected in your optics is blinding.”  For his insolence, he earned a sharp kick to his side.  “Ow.”

“This surface dweller has been meddling in our affairs for long enough.  I think it’s time I paid him a visit, put him in his place.  Don’t you?”

Vortex didn’t particularly agree, but it was a problem Onslaught would inevitably have to deal with.  It would, at least, be fun to see how he intended to handle the remnants of the Trifecta.  “That can be arranged.”

“Yes?”

“He’s planning a major, hoity toity type of party.  Everyone who is anyone will be there, up to and including old Rats himself.”

Catalyst let out a soft whistle.  “Impressive.  Hard to imagine how he managed that.”

“Hard work and perseverance,” Vortex laughed, at last finding the strength to sit back up.  His frame still hurt, particularly his array, but it was easy enough to convince himself that he liked it.  “Point is, he’ll be vulnerable in such a position.  You’ll have no problem meeting him, and you can also further your own business interests while you’re up there.  Someone as powerful as you will fit right in.”

“Yes,” Catalyst agreed.  “Yes, I think I like this.”

“I knew you would.”  He wriggled in place for a moment, until he’d managed to get his legs underneath him.  Then, very carefully, he crawled back to his feet, wobbling unsteadily.  Maybe he’d have to see Hook after all.  “I’ll – er, I’ll get you a ticket.  Say, tomorrow evening?”

“Sounds good to me.”  Catalyst gave him a sharp pat on the shoulder, which Vortex admirably kept his balance through.  The subsequent sultry hand along his rotor hub wasn’t even enough to make him break character, though it did come close.  He flicked a blade to dislodge it, and casually spun around, snapping his mask shut on the way.

“Well then, I’ll be in touch,” he chirped, sauntering backwards, and doing an admirable job of imitating a mech who didn’t receive a hot bite of agony with every step.

“I look forward to it.”

One down, two to go.

~~~

It was nice to not have a hit on his head anymore.  At long last, he could move about the Underground freely, a necessity for his next task.

He hadn’t paid a visit to the coliseum since Modulator’s tragic demise; it was simply too difficult to get in and out freely.  Add to that the hundreds of witnesses, and it was a terrible place for a mech on the run to find himself in.  Today, however, he was gonna catch a match – a Megatronus match, to be precise, from the luxury suite of one Blackjack of Rodion.  Sometimes, it really paid to be Vortex.

“Your presence has been sorely missed, my pet.”

“And I’ve sorely missed you calling me ‘pet’.”  Blackjack was a Micromaster – diminutive in size.  Verbally demeaning others was one way he liked to assert his dominance.  Vortex thought it was cute.  

The small mech tapped the arm of his throne, and Vortex took his cue to plant himself on the narrow surface, leaning affectionately on Blackjack’s shoulder.  It could have been hot, but as the little guy needed to raise his seat to its maximum height for the desired effect, Vortex found it hard not to laugh.  But he was a professional – he wouldn’t have made it very far if he couldn’t fake attraction.

“What was it that finally brought you back to me?”  He ran a small hand up a rotor blade, and Vortex faked a shudder.

“Like you don’t know,” he snorted, nipping at the mech’s crest.  Few things happened in the Underground beyond the Trifecta’s knowledge. 

“Sate my curiosity, Pet.  How did you change Catalyst’s mind?”

“That,” he said, sliding from his seat to straddle Blackjack’s lap, “is between me and Catalyst.”  He leaned in close, planting a dozen kisses all about that bright yellow face.  Blackjack didn’t seem to be half-so enthused as he should have been.  After a moment, he shoved Vortex aside, into the slight gap between Blackjack’s thigh and the chair.

“Don’t block the show.”

Vortex spared a glance for the action down below.  Megatronus had a mech pinned by the helm.  Riveting.  “It’s Megatronus,” he sighed.  “He always wins.  Not like you’re gonna be surprised.”

“I don’t need to be surprised,” Blackjack retorted, pinching a rotor between his fingers.  It was delightfully painful, so of course, Vortex had to lean into it.  “I just need a good show, and Megatronus always provides.”

“Provides the shanix, that is,” Vortex smirked, throwing his legs over Blackjack’s lap.  Was it a comfortable position?  Oh Primus, no, but Blackjack seemed to be equal parts annoyed and amused, so he’d hold it.

“Yes, that too.  He is my prized fighter.  So long as I have him, I’m rich.”

“Not rich enough though,” Vortex mused.  The fingers that had splayed themselves across his frame stiffened.  Cyan optics pried themselves away from the action, planting a suspicious glare on Vortex.

“Careful, Pet, or you might just find a hit on your head again.”  He stroked a possessive hand down the left side of Vortex’s helm.

“Blackjack,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around his neck and leaning in close, “why the threats?  I’m trying to help you.”

“You’re trying to help yourself, more like.”

“Why can’t I do both?”

Blackjack shook his head with a resigned sigh.  There was no getting back to the match until he addressed the issue at hand.  “I take it we’re getting to the reason for your visit?”

Vortex pulled back, a cheery grin on his lips.  “You know me so well!”

“I’m listening.”  Indeed, by this point, his full attention was locked on Vortex.  It was nice to see.

“Okay,” Vortex said, sliding from Blackjack’s lap and back to his feet.  “Let’s talk about the Trifecta, or more specifically, why it worked before, and why it’s failing now.”

“Not sure I’d call  _ this _ a failure.” Blackjack gestured at their luxurious surroundings.

Vortex shrugged.  “Indeed.  By the standards of a normal mech, you’re doin’ quite well.”  He paused, circling around the throne until he stood at its back, forcing Blackjack to crane his neck to look up at him.  “But you’re no normal mech,” he added, cupping that delicate jaw; his hands were promptly batted away.

“Yeah?”

“The Trifecta worked so well because it enforced the balance of power.  All three of you had about the same wealth; you were each the others’ greatest enemy, and also their greatest ally.  Then Catalyst went power hungry and offed Modulator.”

“Wonder who put  _ that _ idea in his head?” Blackjack sneered.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” was Vortex’s laughed retort.  “Brain damage and all that.  But  _ why _ Catalyst fragged up your nice little groove thing is irrelevant.  All that matters is that he did, and, as no one has been able to step in to fill the void left by Modulator, Catalyst’s negative attentions are gonna be focused solely on you now, so congrats!”

Blackjack narrowed his optics.  “What’s it matter?  We’re still equals.”

“Are you though?”  Vortex circled back around, bracing himself on either arm of the throne and leaning in close.  He relished in the way Blackjack stiffened before him.  How fun it would be to kill him here and now. 

But Onslaught would disapprove.

“Business has gone downhill for you ever since Ratbat’s sanctions, while assassinations are on the rise.”

Blackjack frowned at that.  “Yes, I suppose so.  But what’s it matter?”

Vortex slapped a palm to his face.  “I know you’re not that stupid ‘Jack.  You’re not at the top anymore; that honor belongs to Catalyst alone.  Do you really think you’re gonna keep all your perks with him in charge?”

Comprehension slowly dawned on that small face.   _ Now you’re getting it. _

“So I need to off Catalyst before he offs me.”

“Sure,” Vortex shrugged, backing away.  “Or get rid of the sanctions – one of the two.”

“You have a plan?”

_ There we go! _  Vortex grinned and pulled a small slab of circuitry from his subspace.  He tossed it into Blackjack’s waiting hands; within seconds, the little chip had been uploaded to Mr. Trifecta’s comm.

“A charity gala?” he scoffed.  “How’s that supposed to help me?  I’m not giving away my fortune – not when money is tight as it is.”

Again, Vortex crawled into Blackjack’s lap, planting a trail of kisses on his forehelm.  “Ratbat will be there.  I’m sure you can schmooze your way out of this tricky situation you’ve landed in; you’re a smart mech.”  Vortex didn’t particularly believe what he was saying.  Blackjack was an opportunistic mech to be sure, but he was more lucky than smart.  If not for his knack to be in the right place at the right time, he would have been dead long ago.

“Hmm, and you know this how?”

This time, it was a kiss to the nose.  “I’m running errands for the mech putting it on.  That’s your ticket in.  All you gotta do is show up ready to negotiate.”

“Negotiate, eh?”  A malicious smile spread across his lips and he wrapped his hand around Vortex’s neck, drawing him into a deep and hungry kiss.  The grin remained even after he’d pulled away.  “I think that can be arranged.  I really  _ have _ missed you, Pet.”

“And I you.”

From that moment on, the match was well and truly forgotten.

~~~

“Primus, you’re scary when you want something.”  Swindle laughed, filling up a cube of engex, and sliding it across the table.  “Here, drink this.”

“What is it?” Vortex asked, staring at the bubbling pink surface of the drink.

“New recipe Mixmaster cooked up.  Allegedly helps reduce cravings.”

Vortex raised an optic ridge.  “Why would he make that?”

“It’s genius!  First he gets folks addicted to his Poison, then he charges them for the Antidote.  Cunning scrapheap, that one.”

“And you’re giving this to me because . . .?”

Swindle snorted, rolling his optics.  “To help with your – ah  –  problem?”

“Let me rephrase that,” Vortex groaned.  “You’re  _ giving _ this to me because . . .?”

He took the hint; his mouth twisted downward and his wide optics narrowed, a mech caught.  “He’s paying me two hundred shanix to test it out.”

“There we go.”  Despite the admission, he took a big swig of the mystery drink.  It was sickly sweet, but far from the worst he’d ever had.  As he drank, Swindle watched him closely, anticipating.

“Well?”

“Well, if I drop dead in the next five minutes, we’ll know Mixmaster fucked up.”  Vortex took another swig; it was starting to grow on him.  “Now, can we get back to the issue at hand.”

“Onslaught’s gala, yeah, yeah.  Shaping up to be a real disaster.”  Nonchalantly, he hopped to his feet and took the five steps to his energon storage cupboard.  After rifling through for a few seconds, he pulled out another flask, the liquids within green this time, and poured a cube. 

“You think?” Vortex mused, watching Swindle fiddle around in the cupboard.  Once finished, rather than return to the table, he shimmied himself up on top of the counter.

“You’re putting Catalyst, Blackjack, and Ratbat in the same room.  What do you expect?”  He punctuated the statement with a dainty sip of his drink.  Lightweight.

Vortex shrugged, before slumping over across the table.  “I expect the end of the status quo.”

“A clash of the four strongest personalities in Kaon.”

“May the best mech win.”  He nuzzled his helm vents against the table.  It was a surprisingly comfortable position.  He could totally see himself falling asleep like this.  Maybe if he just turned his optics off for a second . . .

“Makes a mech want to start considering foreign investments.”  Swindle’s grating voice pulled Vortex back to consciousness.  He sat up, his vision blurred with sleep.

“Mmm.”

“You add in our strained relationship with Vos, and – well – it’s really not a good time to be a Kaonite.”

“Pretty much.”

Swindle narrowed his optics.  “Are you even listening?”

“Sure, sure.”  Vortex waved a dismissive hand.  “Onslaught’s gala will almost certainly be a disaster,” he laughed.  “But in the two percent likelihood that everything goes according to Onslaught’s mysterious plan, we’re all going to be very rich.”

“We?”  Swindle hopped down from his cupboard, his energon forgotten, in favor of pressing a hand to Vortex’s forehelm.  “You’re heating up.  Maybe I should tell Mixmaster.”

“Hey!” Vortex snapped, brushing off the offending hand.  “Don’t change the subject!  I’m trying to proposition you here!”

“You’re trying to what now?”  Swindle folded his arms over his chest, a stance that was delightfully defensive.  “I told you, you’re not my type.”

Again, Vortex slumped forward, banging his head on the table this time, before shooting back up.  “Not like  _ that _ !  I’m inviting you to Onslaught’s gala!”

Unfortunately, Swindle was not so excited by the prospect as Vortex had hoped.  “Why would I want to go to that?  You and I both know it’s going to be a disaster.”

“A lucrative disaster,” Vortex corrected.  His optic caught the bubbling pink liquid that still filled half of his cube.  It looked surprisingly good right about now.  Before he could reach for it, however, Swindle had placed his hands over the mouth of the cube, pulling it away.  “Hey!”

Swindle ignored the protestation.  “Do you really think I’d put myself at risk for a chance at a little extra cash?”

A giddy chuckle emerged from Vortex’s vocaliser.  “I do.”  The offended gleam in Swindle’s optic was well worth it.  “We’re not talking a ‘little’ extra cash here, Swin.  We’re talking celebrities, politicians, entrepreneurs – Alpha castes, and above – the kinda mechs that wouldn’t be caught dead in the Underground, least of all nowadays.  You play your cards right, not only will you make a lotta money, but you’ll forge connections with mechs in  _ very _ high places.”  He could see Swindle’s mouth watering at the prospect.

“Well, okay,” he said through gritted teeth.  “I admit it  _ could _ be worth it.  But the risk . . .”  He trailed off, his optics locked on the ticket Vortex was waving in front of his face.  “I really hate you,” he groaned, reaching for the ticket.  Too bad for him, Vortex wasn’t giving it away that easily.  He promptly ripped it out of Swindle’s reach. 

“Hey!  What gives?!”  Swindle was so cute when he was affronted.

“Not running a charity here,” Vortex grinned, dangling the ticket just over the little mech’s head.

“That is  _ exactly _ what you’re running,” he retorted, folding his arms and doing his best to ignore the dangling golden chip.

Vortex cackled, a bit more than the joke should have prompted.  Maybe he  _ was _ a bit overcharged.  Primus, what had Mixmaster put in that thing?  And how could he convince him to make more?  “I’m tempted to give you the ticket by virtue of that witty comeback, but alas.”  He slumped backwards in his chair with a dramatic sigh.  “We need cash to put something like this on, and with Blasters gone . . .”

“I’m not paying to plant myself at the epicenter of a disaster.”

It was a predictable answer.  Swindle was greedy, but he wasn’t stupid.  Still, Vortex had his own plan.  “That’s fair.  That’s totally fair.  Which is why I wasn’t gonna ask you for money – I know how important it is to you, after all.  And really, what kind of charity would force its recipients to fund it?” 

Swindle’s glare grew suspicious.  “What is it you want?  I’m not making any more comms.”

“I just need you to pass on a teensy little message.”

Suspicion transformed into curiosity.  “A message?  Why don’t you do it yourself?”

Vortex shook his head.  “Blasters isn’t gonna listen to me, and he’s too bitter to pick up for Onslaught.  But Onslaught thinks he’ll pick up for you.  Noble mannerisms would prohibit him ignoring a business partner without explanation, or some such nonsense.”  He shrugged.  “I’ve got a little message to slip in that Onslaught thinks will bring him back.  All you gotta do is pass it on, and the key to untold riches is yours.”

Swindle didn’t want to do it – it was written all over his face.  He was suspicious, he was wary, he was worried for his future, for his safety.  And yet, though he had every right for caution, even he couldn’t deny that the potential benefits outweighed the risk.  What kind of businessmech would he be if he let this opportunity slip through his fingers?

“Fine, fine.  I’ll do it.  Give me that ticket.”  He swiped the thing from Vortex’s hand, glaring all the while.  “Stupid manipulative Copter.”

Vortex responded by leaning over the table and planting a kiss on Swindle’s cheek.  “Aww, thanks Swin!”  He also took the distraction to reclaim Mixmaster’s Antidote, downing the rest of it in one swig, before hopping to his unsteady feet.  Primus, this stuff was great!  “I gotta be off.  I look forward to hearing from you!”  At that, he trotted out the front door, offering a cheery greeting to Heavy Metal before disappearing down the hall and out into the cold night air.

~~~

Having a legit comm was nice.  Knowing the border guards well enough to bribe them without incurring any monetary cost was even better.  He could travel easily between the surface and the Underground, an ability denied even many Alphas.  He of course, used this ability to net himself a pretty sweet apartment in District Four – specifically, the empty, yet completely paid off apartment of a certain former employee of Onslaught.

As best as maintenance had tried to hide it, there was no denying that a tank had lived here.  There were certain dents in the walls, and oddly, even some on the high ceiling that indicated a tenant with a short temper and perhaps not the highest level of coordination.  Bluffing his way in had been easy, and the risk that Brawl could return at any moment offset the boredom of suburban living.  If Brawl caught him, there  _ would _ be blood, most likely his own.  It was a lovely thought.

He flopped down on the sofa he’d bought off a naïve neighbor, turned on the cheap holocaster he’d swiped from Swindle’s storage unit, and shut off his focus.  The world was still spinning, pink-tinged and bubbly from Mixmasters fantastic Antidote.  As a tool to dissuade Syk intake, he had to say it wasn’t doing a great job.  Lying inert after a job well-done still made him want to indulge, just as it always did, only now, he was craving another bubbly pink cube of engex on the side.  He wasn’t sure if that was the point of the experiment or not, but he decided he would complain the next time he crossed Mixmaster’s path.  In the meantime, it was time for a hit. 

He lazily rolled from the sofa, landing on the floor with a soft  _ flop _ , and crawled to a side table, where he reached into a very special drawer for a certain small, blue vial.  The Syk had been acquired, but he still needed a cube to mix it in.  Ugh, standing up.

A light chime drew his attention.  Who would be comming him now?

Onslaught, apparently.

He answered the call, already rising to his feet, and trudging to the energon storage in search of a fresh cube.  “’Sup?”

_ [Report?] _

“Sorry, I don’t speak one-word sentences.  Try again.”  He began spilling the contents of the vial into the cube, smiling as he could practically hear Onslaught’s fuel pressure rise from across the line.

_ [I am asking you for a report,]  _ he said, his voice straining to stay calm.   _ [It has been a few days since I last heard from you.  In order for this plan to succeed, I need to remain informed.] _

“Ah,” said Vortex.  Cube in hand, he wandered back to his sofa, propping his legs up on the side table.  “My bad.  I assumed you trusted me to get the job done.”

_ [You assumed wrong,] _ Onslaught shot back coolly.   _ [Now, I gave you a mission.  Be a good employee and report.] _

The cube was halfway to Vortex’s mouth, but he didn’t drink.  The jab about employment had been a surprisingly effective one.  Vortex worked for Onslaught for the time being, and he rather enjoyed doing so.  It was better if he cooperated.  With a sigh, he set the cube down on the floor.

“It’s done.  Catalyst, Blackjack, and Swindle are all coming to the gala, and I got Swindle to pass on your message to Blast Off.  We’re good to go.”

Stunned silence ruled the other line.   _ Hah!  Didn’t see that coming, did you Mr. Tactician! _

_ [I – I am impressed by your work.  Good job.] _

“You’re welcome,” Vortex smugly shot back.  Still, hearing praise from Onslaught, of all mechs, made him feel strangely bubbly inside.  It was a feeling he rather liked.

_ [Your efforts have put us ahead of schedule.  I will call back tomorrow morning with your next mission.  Enjoy your night.] _

“You too, Boss!” 

It was strange to be praised with such sincerity.  Vortex was accustomed to mind games in his every interaction; most mechs of the Underground knew who he was and what he did, and reacted accordingly – constantly trying to twist the balance of power in their favor.  Onslaught wasn’t naïve; he didn’t trust Vortex at all, which was perhaps why the compliment felt so energizing.  And somehow, it made the deeply-ingrained War Mech desire-to-please flare with pride.  He’d done well, and his commanding officer had seen it.  What more could a Rotary want?

He cast a glance to his drink on the floor, abandoned.  Somehow, it looked less appetizing now.  He didn’t need to see the stars, not when he was already floating on Onslaught’s words.  It was . . . nice.  Stupid, but nice.  For once he even found himself looking forward to tomorrow; if it brought another Onslaught mission, it was certain to be good.  The Syk, he could put off for another night, a night when he had nothing to lose.

With a smile on his lips, he shuttered his optics and slipped into recharge, feeling happier than he had in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vortex really does get around, doesn't he?


	16. Your Obedient Servant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blast Off is finally free, but is he happy?

His life was perfect.  He lived on Altihex station, miles away from the Pits of Kaon.  It was clean, tranquil, beautiful, and perfectly suited to an Alpha like himself.  Aphelion had netted him a job in the Science Guild, as a project manager.  It was his job to keep the notorious space cases Stardust and Polaris (and though the mech liked to take the moral high ground, Aphelion himself was an equal offender of off-task mucking about) in line.  It wasn’t a difficult job.  He’d wake up in the morning, go to his shift, watch his peers do their science thing, tell them off when they strayed, then go home at the end of the day to enjoy his leisure time, of which there was plenty.

It felt good to be in space again.  At one point, he’d even taken a week off to take a spin around the local solar system, a vacation he hadn’t realized he’d needed, until he was out in the emptiness of space, alone and content.  It was heaven, living the life he’d been meant for, rather than the one he’d deluded himself into thinking he’d wanted.

And yet, he couldn’t stave off the guilt.  Onslaught had relied on him, and Blast Off had failed to provide.  He’d betrayed his once-leader, the mech he admired more than any other, and it was a failure that bit at him when he was alone, when the peaceful infinity of space could no longer maintain his full attention.  He truly was a despicable mech.

In the early days of his resignation, Onslaught had commed several times a day, but Blast Off could never bring himself to answer.  What was he supposed to do?  There was nothing he could say to atone for what he’d done.  If he had to face Onslaught again, he would no doubt go crawling back with his tailfin tucked in, which was a fate he couldn’t suffer.  Living in Kaon was too much for him.  He couldn’t go back.  So he ignored the comms, until at last, they stopped coming.

Somehow, it only made him feel worse.

He tried to assuage his guilt, to remind himself that this was the sort of life he needed to be living.  He didn’t belong in a cramped apartment in a dirty city, so polluted by light and industry, that the blessed stars had long since disappeared from its skies.  He didn’t belong beneath the planet’s surface, making deals with shady mechs, hardened by the desperation of poverty and a life without prospects.  And he’d been disgusted by his own role in bringing a slice of the worst things the Underground had to offer to the surface, getting perfectly decent middle-caste mechs addicted to terrible drugs, all to turn a profit for Onslaught.

He was where he was meant to be.  Onslaught had been an obstacle to overcome, not a saint leading him to a glorious future.  The mech was delusional, a madmech, and Blast Off was better off without him.  Too bad he couldn’t convince his spark of the truth his processor had long ago realized.

Onslaught was the least of his problems, however.

Space Shuttles were made for isolation, but bustling Kaon had left its mark on him.  More and more, Blast Off found him seeking out the company of other mechs, to their continued bafflement.  The mechs in the cafe tolerated his presence.  The Artisan’s Guild would make friendly conversation as he mulled over their gorgeous portraits, and he’d take volunteer shifts in the control room, just to have someone to talk to.

Most often, however, he found himself in the casino, drinking away his woes, and complaining to Aphelion.

“What’s wrong with me?” he groaned, slumping forward on the counter.  The little Speedster to his right shot him a glare and scooted his chair away.

“You’ve been on the surface too long,” Aphelion replied, topping off his cube with the tasteless engex Altihex was known for.  Blast Off didn’t bother drinking it.  “You just have to reacclimate.  It won’t happen overnight, but I promise you, this ennui will pass.”

“It’s not ennui,” Blast Off groaned, burying his face in the counter with a muffled groan.  

“Guilt?  Longing?”

Blast Off pushed himself from the counter, leaning back in his chair, until he was staring at the starry constellations on the ceiling.  “Culture shock, perhaps?” he sighed.  “Homesickness.”

“Shocked by your own culture,” Aphelion laughed.  “That’s harsh.”

“I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he protested.  “How clingy I’ve become.  It’s unbecoming of a Shuttle.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but yeah, I have noticed.”  At Blast Off’s pitiful groan, he hurried to provide comfort, “But you’ll get over it.  This is the life you’re meant for.  You weren’t happy in Kaon, and you were never going to be.”

“I know.”  He buried his face in a hand, trying to hide his distraught expression from his friend.  His free hand groped for his cube, but still, he did not drink.  “Don’t you have anything better than this?”

“For paying customers,” Aphelion retorted.  “Seven hundred shanix for a Paxian Twenty-Eight, nine hundred for a Carpessian Forty-Two.”

“Overpriced,” Blast Off sighed, sipping down the tasteless dreck in his hand.  He received a glare for his efforts.

“That’s Altihex for you,” he snapped defensively.  “Everything is more expensive up here.  Importing engex to space costs more than a few credits, you know.”

“I know.”  Was this to be his life from now on?  Drinking bad engex in a too-quiet den of sin, surrounded by snooty nobles whom he had nothing in common with anymore?  Aphelion was the closest thing he had to a friend, but the mech didn’t know him.  Like most of Altihex, he’d led a sheltered, privileged life, one that Blast Off had thankfully been dragged from.  He longed for other veterans to talk to, but most had taken up the expat life, or had been killed during the war.  His efforts to connect with the few other Altihexian veterans that remained had ended in failure and further misery. 

The days passed in an isolated haze, as he began to sink further into his despair.  He was too aloof for the Grounders, and too social for the Shuttles.  Was there any place in this world for a mech like him?

It was in this state of mind that he received the comm from Swindle.

He shouldn’t have answered, not if he wanted to put Kaon and all of its woes behind him.  And yet, he’d set up a business deal with the shady merchant before he’d left for Altihex.  It was only proper to provide closure for the affair.  Yes.  Maintaining sound professional relationships was the only reason he had for picking up.

“Swindle, hello.”

_ [Hey there, partner!]  _ Swindle replied cheerfully. _  [I hear you skipped town, and so soon after our arrangement.  What’s a bot to think?] _

Blast Off winced.  Swindle didn’t exactly sound angry, but tone of voice meant very little amongst master liars.  “I apologize.  I was not expecting to leave my current employment when I made that deal with you.”

_ [Understandable.  Completely understandable.] _  Swindle was lying.  He sounded much too thrilled for it to be anything else.   _ [I do wish you had told me though.  I put a lot of effort into finding information specifically for your cause, and it was all for nothing.] _

“With all due respect, Swindle, you were paid in advance for your services.”  Blast Off didn’t like this at all.  Swindle was trying to squeeze money out of him, no doubt, and Blast Off was not in the mood to play that game at all.  “I apologize for my unprofessionalism, but the contract was completed.”

_ [Unfortunately, no.] _  A ping sounded on Blast Off’s comm, indicating a request for data transfer.  Hesitantly, he accepted the offer.  As expected, the contract he and Swindle had negotiated sprang into view on his HUD.   _ [If you’ll turn your attention to Section C, Line VII . . .] _

_. . . The contract is complete only upon the transmittal of the requested information from Party B to Party A, and the transfer of the negotiated payment of 3500 shanix and a work visa from Party A to Party B.  Should either party fail to transmit or receive either the services specified in Section A, Line II, or the compensation agreed upon in Section A, Line V, then the party responsible for such failure will be deemed in breach of contract, and shall be subject to a penalty of an additional 3000 shanix and 27 credits . . . _

“You can’t be serious.”

_ [You agreed to it,] _ Swindle sighed sweetly.   _ [Nothing I can do.  It’s written right there, plain as day.] _

Blast Off narrowed his optics, very much tempted to hang up on Swindle then and there, but his noble’s pride forbade it.  He could not have unpaid debts left hanging over his head.  “Very well,” he groaned.  “My mistake.  I shall rectify the problem immediately.”  He opened a connection with the datanet, and spared a glance at his bank account.  The fee would hurt, but he could handle it.  Before he could approve the transfer, however, Swindle was stepping in.

_ [I am open to negotiation, if you’d prefer.  There’s a clause approving such things in Section C, Line XI.] _

That was some kind of trap waiting to happen.  Blast Off was wise enough to know that much.  “I think I’d feel better paying the fee.”

_ [That’s a pity,]  _ Swindle replied, not disappointed in the least.   _ [Because I am willing to knock off a quarter of the debt, and all you have to do in return is help me out by listening to one little message.] _

It was too good of a deal; a mech as savvy as Swindle would never make such a thing, unless he was convinced the message was something Blast Off wouldn’t want to hear.  On the other hand, it was hard to imagine a message so offensive that it wasn’t worth seven hundred fifty shanix to give it a listen.

“Very well.  I agree to these terms.”

_ [Perfect!  I’ll just write up a contract really quick, and then we can begin the transfer.] _

A second request for data transfer pinged on his HUD, and Blast Off accepted the it just as he had the first.  This time, he made sure to give the thing a thorough read, and once he deemed the terms agreeable, he affixed his rubsign to the document and returned it to Swindle.  Shortly after that, the third data transfer request came through, this time with an acceptance fee of two thousand, two hundred forty-nine shanix and twenty-seven credits. Blast Off input the money, and in exchange, received the promised message.

_ [Pleasure doing business with you, Blast Off!  I promise, you won’t be disappointed.] _

“I do hope so,” Blast Off responded dryly, feeling significantly less fond of Swindle than he had in the past, albeit, curiosity was also trickling in.  “Blast Off out.”

He didn’t put it off.  Swindle would surely have some way of finding out if and when Blast Off listened to the message, and should he put it off, Swindle would no doubt come after him with another breach of contract violation and some ridiculous fine to go with.  It was better to get the listening over with as soon as possible.

_ “Blast Off . . .” _

Frag!  Frag, frag, frag!  Of course it was Onslaught.  Blast Off didn’t know how Swindle had managed to get in contact with the mech, but clearly he was either more savvy than Blast Off had given him credit for.  Or more easily persuaded.  He forced his racing spark to calm, forced himself to listen to Onslaught’s smooth, sultry voice beg forgiveness.

_ “I can understand that I am probably the last mech you wish to speak to right now.  I misunderstood you.  I used you.  I ignored your obvious distress, because I was too wrapped up in my own, and for that, I apologize.” _  That was classic Onslaught, always knowing exactly what to say to get him off the hook.  How many times had he practiced this speech into a recorder, played it back to himself until every word, each little inflection, was right?  Blast Off wouldn’t allow himself to be fooled.

_ “I appreciate the reasoning behind your departure, and have realized my mistake, albeit, too little too late.  VRIO cannot exist without the superior level of work you always put into it.”   _ And the money he put in too, no doubt. _  “Without you, I am navigating the world of senators and celebrities blind.  I can understand if you do not wish to return, but your place will always be open, should you request it. _

_ “I should note that I was able to find a replacement to cover Lower Kaon, as I should have done long ago, so if you choose to return, you would never again be required to travel below ground.”   _ Blast Off perked up.  Was that true?  Who, in all of the Underground, had Onslaught deemed trustworthy enough to handle his illicit affairs?  Swindle was the most likely culprit.   _ “Furthermore, I am willing to work with you, should you decide that you would prefer to live in Altihex.  With the Underground taken care of, your knowledge of nobility would be indispensable, especially in the event we decide to expand beyond Kaon, or into other industries.”   _ As far as begging for forgiveness went, it was an admirable effort.  There was nothing inherently objectionable about Onslaught’s offer, aside from the fact that it was Onslaught making it.  Resentment still burned strong, but was it stronger than the misery of his current situation?

_ “Whether or not you return to VRIO is up to you; I will not pressure you into doing something you do not wish to do.  I have learned my lesson in that regard.  However, as it would not exist without you, I would like to extend an invitation which you may feel free to take, regardless of where you decide to rejoin us.  Your charity gala is coming up in three months, and I would love for you to come and see what magnificent wonders you helped to create, as well as the fruit of our plan.  I’ve included the data for two tickets within this message – all you have to do is download them onto a chip, and present them at the door.  Please do consider it. _

_ “In the meantime, I look forward to the day where we may meet again.  Goodbye, my friend.” _

For several long minutes, Blast Off didn’t move at all.  He was at a loss.  Onslaught knew him too well, knew that he wouldn’t be happy in Altihex, that he wouldn’t be happy anywhere, and he’d offered everything he’d had before and more.  Blast Off loved working with Onslaught – or maybe he just straight up  _ loved _ Onslaught.  Either way, Onslaught knew what Blast Off wanted, and knew how to use that to get what  _ he _ wanted in turn.  It was the perfect strategy.

And yet, Blast Off remained unsure.  He wanted to go back to Onslaught.  He wanted to work side-by-side with that mech, who had more class than every noble in Altihex combined, whose wit and wisdom were the stuff of legend, who could accomplish the impossible through sheer force of will.  But he knew that his image of his once-commander was idealized beyond reproach, and he didn’t trust himself enough to sort out the truth from the lies.  He couldn’t put himself in a position to be hurt again, not now, not when he was so vulnerable, but  _ Primus _ , he really wanted this.

Of course, there was only one thing to do.

“Come crawling back, has he?” Aphelion snorted, polishing an empty cube.  “I’m surprised you’re even considering it.”

“It was a remarkably good offer,” Blast Off admitted, sipping at his cube of Protihex Ninety-Eight.  It had cost a pretty penny, but at least it tasted alright.  “I know that last time was an unmitigated disaster, but this?  I have no problems with the thought of courting senators all day.”

Aphelion remained unconvinced.  “If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.  What is it he’s not telling you, hmm?  How he intends to give you the brush off again?”

“What reason would he have for doing so?” Blast Off protested, optics fixed on the silvery liquid in his cube.  Truth be told, he didn’t know what he wanted to hear, but this didn’t seem to be it.  “Onslaught has every reason to want to keep me happy.”

“Until he suddenly doesn’t.”  Aphelion shook his head, and reached for another empty cube.  “I swear, I’ll never understand what you see in that Grounder.”

“Probably not,” Blast Off agreed, earning him a glare.  It was true though.  He may have been an aberration amongst Shuttles, but Aphelion was still a sheltered noble.  He would never understand the wonders Onslaught was capable of unless he saw them for himself.

“Well,” sighed Aphelion, “you asked me what I think, and I’m telling you.  Mechs never change.  If he hurt you in the past, he’ll hurt you again.  It’s only a matter of time.”

Ripples formed in the high grade, reflecting the soft, blue light of the bar back into Blast Off’s face.  He swished it again in the other direction, feeling every bit as conflicted as before.  “I suppose.”

Aphelion groaned, setting down his empty cube a bit harder than he ought to have.  It clattered sharply, causing both mechs to wince.  “Look,” he tried, “I’m not psychic.  I don’t know what it is you want to hear from me.”  And then, after a moment’s thought, “Why not tell me why you joined him in the first place?”

Why indeed?  Blast Off had thought he knew, but when asked to articulate, it all sounded so silly.  “I just . . . it just seemed natural.  We served together for nearly the entirety of three vorns.  That’s nearly half my life.  And time and again over the years, I found myself impressed by the sheer bearings, not to mention wit and poise of this Delta caste War Mech.”  He smiled, offlining his optics and taking another swig of his drink.  Like this, he could pretend he was far away, in a simpler time, where the answers were clear and the choices were few.  The moment was sadly brief.

“After the war, when he asked me to join him, I felt blessed.”  His fond smile vanished, and he let underwhelming reality sink back in.  “I knew he wanted my money, my financial expertise and my knowledge of surface living, but I didn’t care.  It was enough to work at his side once more.”

“You got it real bad,” Aphelion laughed.  This time, Blast Off was the one to glare.

“Coming back from the war, everything was different.  Everything I’d known, everything I’d ever wanted, ever thought I could be – suddenly it wasn’t enough.  I spent ages out on the front lines, making a tangible difference.  My every action was changing the future of Cybertron for the better.  And then, I was expected to come back to this nothing, to get a mundane job, something I could do in my sleep – to work for the good, not of Cybertron or Altihex, but some mech above me in the hierarchy – some mech I’d probably never meet.  It all seems dreadfully small by comparison.

“But Onslaught offered me more.  Me?  I was lucky.  I’m an Alpha – at least I could go home to a life of security.  Most War Mechs didn’t have that luxury, and Onslaught sought to change it.  We were making a palpable difference in the lives of the people we served.  We were fighting institutional poverty and classism.  We were changing the world, saving it.  It was fulfilling work in the beginning.”

“What changed?” Aphelion asked, leaning over the bar.  He’d long since stopped polishing his cube.

“It was that same classism that got in  _ our _ way.  Turns out that the mechs who rule the world don’t like to see the status quo upset.”  He laughed, bitterly.  “Our work got harder, murkier – helping others took a backseat to staying afloat.  We spent more time fighting for our right to exist than we did saving the world, and the lengths to which we turned . . .”  He trailed off, remembering his part in spreading Syk and circuit boosters on the surface, remembering the black-market deals, profiting from pit fights, aiding the Underground corruption that they were meant to be fighting.  “I couldn’t keep living like that.”

Aphelion stood up straight and reached for his cube and cloth, a frown on his face.  “So what makes you think this time will be different?”

Blast Off shrugged.  “I . . . I don’t know.  Onslaught said he got someone to fill in for the . . . less pleasant parts of my job.  If I went back, I could devote my entire attention to doing real good, rather than waste my time doing things I disagree with for the sake of survival.”  He paused, suddenly thoughtful.  That’s exactly what Onslaught was doing, wasn’t it?  Pressed by despair to do reprehensible things.  And Brawl – forced to put himself in danger weekly, and he still could barely afford to eat.  Vortex too, came to mind, though Blast Off was hard-pressed to explain why. 

He was clearly one messed up little bot, but Blast Off couldn’t help but remember that first night, seeing him sprawled out on the chest of a mech several dozen times his size, a mech that, by all rights should have been able to kill him.  It was easy enough to imagine that tiny frame battered and helpless, he had the visual from Brawl’s assault.  What had pushed a mech like that into putting his life on the line in such a way?  What kind of life had he led to make him the way he was?

It wasn’t fair.  Blast Off could leave that life whenever he wanted, but the others?  They didn’t have that luxury.  They were forced to fight or die, and more often than not, the latter was the end result.  Perhaps he was being selfish.

Aphelion’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.  “Maybe I’m not the one you should be talking to,” he mused.  Blast Off wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that.

“Hmm?”

“Onslaught?” Aphelion nodded, as though the answer was obvious.  “Work out the terms with him, voice your concerns, see how far he’s willing to go to accommodate you.”

But Blast Off shook his head.  “If I try to barter with Onslaught, he will win.”

“Ah.”  Silver lips pursed in a thoughtful frown, cyan optics narrowed, as though the change in perspective could reveal the answers he sought.  “Ah!”

“Ah?”

“He invited you to that charity event he’s putting on, right?”  Aphelion’s smile was wide, confident.  He was so sure he’d won.

“Yes,” Blast Off said, slowly.

“Talk to him there, face-to-face.”

Blast Off liked this plan even less.  “Talking to him face-to-face?  That just gives him more to work with.”

But Aphelion was unswayed.  “That’s while  _ I’ll _ be there – to back you up.  I’m already suspicious of the guy.  I’ll be like your attorney, there to make sure you’re not getting cheated.”  He beamed from vent to vent, clearly proud of himself.  Blast Off was less sure, but he was likewise aware that this was probably the easiest option available to him.  Guilt, pressure, and a silver tongue would no doubt seal his fate for him, but delaying the decision would at least provide the illusion that he had any control over his life.  And with such a massive change looming on the horizon, perhaps it would bring a little thrill to his meaningless existence.

“I . . . I suppose that is acceptable,” he sighed at last, downing the rest of his drink. 

“Don’t worry, Blast Off,” Aphelion grinned.  “I won’t do you wrong.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.”  He wished that he had a little more resolve, wished he knew just what it was he wanted, and when to say no.  But what he wished didn’t matter.  In the end, he’d cave to a superior will, just as he always had.

_ Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, Blast Off.  In three months’ time, you’ll be back in the thick of it. _

He nearly couldn’t wait.


	17. Silver Lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swindle is having a bad day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another graphic violence warning here, just in case.

It had taken nearly nine months, but finally, Swindle’s life was getting back on track.  All he had left was this stupid gala thing (which, to be fair, was a potentially lucrative business venture), and he’d be back to the easy life.  Even better than the easy life  –  Modulator was dead, after all.  He was free to operate as he wanted in the Underground with no threat of tithe, and after a brief adjustment period in this brave new world of intelligence brokering, business was booming.

Even better, after hooking Vortex up with Onslaught, the pair had become practically inseparable.  Gone were the days of Vortex crashing on his sofa in a drug-addled haze with miscellaneous body parts stored in his subspace, and no idea how they’d gotten there.  Gone was having to put up with violent outbursts, daily threats on his life, unwanted advances, and  _ oh _ , the detox.  Swindle was sick of trying to help Vortex curb his more self-destructive tendencies, of sitting with him through the withdrawals, of sending him to Hook when he inevitably relapsed hard, and generally, of just having him around.

But now Vortex had taken up residence on the surface, and spent most of his time playing with the Trifecta, cozying up to border patrol, gambling at the coliseum, testing Mixmaster’s newest concoctions, and on the whole, not bothering Swindle.  It was an amazing feeling.  He was strongly considering burning that sofa and getting something a little smaller.

By and large, Swindle was feeling fantastic.  He had wealth, he had power, he had freedom.  Swindle was on the fast track straight to the apex of Lower Kaon powerhouses.  Unfortunately, that was a problem in its own right.  

With an estimated wealth exceeding three million shanix, Swindle was fairly certain that he’d finally surpassed coliseum-owner Blackjack in terms of financial worth, which put him in a very dangerous position.  The power vacuum created by Modulator’s death had yet to be filled; those who had tried to do so had all ended up very dead, as Catalyst and Blackjack struggled for full control of the Underground.  If Swindle had amassed more wealth than a member of the Trifecta, then chances were, said member of the Trifecta would retaliate with extreme prejudice.  Perhaps it was best to keep Heavy Metal and Gear Grinder even closer.  And give them a little raise, just in case.

Still, aside from the precautions, Swindle wasn’t too worried.  He didn’t exactly go about flaunting his wealth and power to the public, and on top of that, he’d gone out of his way to make himself very useful to those above him.  He’d be fine.  Instead of wasting his time worrying about assassination attempts that may or may not come, he instead decided to focus his efforts on preparing for the business venture that was Onslaught’s gala.

He was quite looking forward to making contacts amongst the high class mechs that would be in attendance.  All that money in one place?  He was practically drooling in anticipation.  The downside was, of course, that Swindle, as Vortex before him, was an Untouchable.  Making a legit comm for himself was significantly cheaper than making one for Vortex, but it was still something he wasn’t entirely pleased with.  At least he had Vortex’s comm as a base; he could craft a fairly similar backstory and contact list, and save on a lot of work in the process.  His discontinued alt mode made his life a bit harder, but not enough to be too much of a hindrance.

And so, he found himself at Short Circuit’s house, giving the mech a data cube he’d spent the last two months compiling.  All that was left was to program the information into the comm.  It would be ready in time for the gala, but only just.  Primus, Vortex really did have obnoxious timing.  

He was done here.  District Twelve was calling for him  – so much scrap to collect, so much money to be made.

It was not to be.

Lying on the ground outside of Short Circuit’s apartment were two large hunks of metal.  At first, Swindle had assumed one of the neighbors had dumped their scrap on the side of the road.  It  _ was _ District Eleven, after all, but then he noticed the freshly-fading paint jobs, the frame-types, the faces.   _ Frag it. _  Heavy Metal and Gear Grinder had been offed in his brief absence, quite recently by the look of it.  He didn’t bother sticking around to find out why; the answer was obvious.

Swindle switched to alt mode and took off down the street at top speed, but even going his fastest, he wasn’t fast enough.  A burst of blasterfire took out one of his rear tires, sending him flying through the air.  Driving was no longer an option; he reverted to root mode before he even hit the ground, and took off running.  He could hear the footsteps behind him  – a tall, sleek mech from the sound of it  – most likely a flight-frame.  

The buzz of a blaster powering up was all the warning he got before another devastating shot rang out over his head, taking out the booth down the street, as well as the decrepit building it had been set up against.  Fortunately, Swindle had the foresight to dive out of the way, around the corner, and onto the main street.  Unfortunately, he’d also landed right at the thruster-heeled feet of a familiar Seeker.  Frag it, this was the Assassin trine  –  Stormchaser, Stratosphere, and Clash.  

He tried to scramble to his feet, but he was too slow.  Surprisingly powerful arms scooped him up, and soon, he was face-to-face with Stratosphere.

“Well well,” she said, “look what we got here.”

The second Seeker, Clash, caught up from behind, slowing to a stop, vents flaring.  “Silly little Jeep, thought he could escape from  _ us _ .”  Where was the third?  This lot always operated as a trio.

“Ladies,” Swindle said, throwing on his most winning smile.  “Why anyone would put a hit on my head is beyond me, but whatever they’re paying you, I can pay more.”

Stratosphere snorted.  “Yeah right.  I’ve never heard that one before.”

“You’ve never been hired to kill  _ me _ before,” Swindle shot back, wriggling experimentally.  

“He’s got a point,” Clash said, frowning.  “He’s rich  – more so than Blackjack.  We could make a pretty penny from  – ”

“And end up like Vortex?  Frag that,” Stratosphere admonished.  “I got my integrity.”

“Well, maybe I don’t.  I’m in it for the money, Strat’.”

“And that’s why I’m the leader, and you’re not.”

“Who says, eh?  Who says you’re the leader?”

“Oh, not this again.”  Much to Swindle’s surprise, the Seeker dropped him to the ground, offering him a sharp glare and a silent command to stay, before turning her attention to her partner.  “Do I have to put you in your place  _ again _ ?”

“I’ve gotten stronger since last time!”

“This is not the time.”

“I disagree!”

The next thing Swindle knew, lasers were flying, blasters were blasting, and the pair of Seekers were just distracted enough for him to give them the slip.  Keeping low to the ground, he took off, hoping against hope that no one noticed.  

And that was when he was shot in the chest.

Swindle collapsed backwards to the ground just as Stormchaser, the third member of the trine, leapt down from a nearby balcony, crushing Swindle’s face underfoot.  She said not a word, but there was murder in her red optics; she was not about to let up, Swindle had no doubt, and worse, her thruster was in his mouth.  He couldn’t talk.  He was going to have his fragging brain module cumpled to a fine powder, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.

“Yeah, you show him, Chase!” Stratosphere cheered.

“No!  Think of the  _ money!” _  The sharp clang of a metallic punch shut up the detractor.  There was no one coming to help Swindle.  No one, that was, save for the tank that had come from nowhere to shoot a powerful cannon straight through the poor Seeker that had him pinned.

“Oh no!  Not  _ this _ freak again!”  

“Let’s get outta here!”  The remaining two Seekers fled, and their partner, broken as she was, limped after, growling and sputtering.  Fortunately for her, the tank didn’t seem interested in pursuing.

Swindle felt like a pile of slag, but he was grateful for the last-minute save.  He coughed and sputtered, rubbing at his poor, dented mouth and trying his best to sit up.  The tank’s powerful hands were quick to help him, grabbing onto his sensitive spare tire to give him the support he needed.

“Are you okay?  I see those three troublemakers are up to their old tricks again,” the deep, surprisingly-friendly voice said.

“Y-yeah,” Swindle sputtered.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  I’ve had worse.  Frag  – ”  He slumped forward, coughing, and still, the tank held on.  “I did  _ not _ need that today.  But thanks for saving me.”  For the first time, he peered up to get a better look at his savior.  Strange, he could have sworn he’d seen this guy somewhere before.  In the coliseum perhaps?

“You’re welcome.  I hate seeing small mechs ganged up on like that.  It’s sick,” his masked face grew dark, if only for a second.  “But I’m glad I got here when I did.  I was just visiting some old friends before I move into my new place for good.  Gettin’ outta this pit finally.”

“Well, good for you.”  Swindle hadn’t meant to sound bitter, but it was so hard to control the inflections of his vocaliser at a time like this.

The Tank, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice.  Instead, he crawled to his feet, and helped Swindle do the same, leading him by the hand.  “My name’s Brawl, of Helex, veteran of the Quintesson Wars.  How ‘bout you?”

“Swindle,” he answered, rubbing his jaw again.  Frag, those thruster heels really hurt.

He should have been paying more attention.  He shouldn’t have assumed that he was in the clear, just because the assassins were gone.  He was  _ Swindle _ , king of the Underground.  He should have known better.

“Swindle,” Brawl repeated, darkly.  “I know you!  You’re the merchant  – the one who was working with Blast Off.”

Blast Off?  “Oh, you must be one of Onslaught’s mechs.  Yeah,” he nodded.  “We worked together.  Then he took off for Altihex and left me high and dry.  Rude is what it is.”  He inspected his frame for damage.  His right hip wheel was shot, his spare tire was dangerously loose, his chest was charred, partially melted, and his face was in agony, but he could still walk.  A trip to Hook was probably in order.  “Well, anyway, thanks for saving me.  I owe ya.”

Swindle was not expecting to find stasis cuffs slapped around his wrists, and yet, there they were.  Brawl was surprisingly fast for a mech of his size, and Swindle was in no position to make an escape.  Instead, he collapsed forward, into Brawl’s waiting arms, unable to do anything but listen to that deep, harsh voice.

“Swindle, by order of Senator Ratbat, you are under arrest, for conspiracy against the government.  You will be taken in for interrogation now.”

Frag it all, this really was not his day.

~~~

He didn’t know where they’d brought him.  The stasis cuffs had left him drowsy, reducing the world around him to a half-processed blur of light and sound, and the shoulder which Brawl had flung him over was ever-so comfortable.  He’d spent the trek in a daze, his optics half-shuttered, his processer too shocked for higher functions.  At some point they’d passed border patrol, he was pretty sure, and the relative quiet of his new location implied the sort of exclusivity that only wealth could afford.  He didn’t have long to enjoy it, however.

Within minutes, he was brought somewhere cold and dark, a dismal locale that triggered memories he very much would have liked to suppress.   _ A leaking ceiling, dim purple lights reflecting off the energon-stained ground, chill air ripping through exposed circuitry, leaving his stripped protoform shivering.  Hands  _ – _ touching, grabbing, hurting; eyes  _ – _ watching; lips  _ – _ smiling; jeering voices, pleasured groans, laughter . . .  _

Swindle jerked back to attention, his arms cuffed to the hard chair behind his back.  Standing a mere ten feet away was a tall, lithe mech, barely visible in this poorly-lit dungeon.  Brawl stood with his back to the door, pointedly not looking at Swindle, while another mech, boxy-chested and vacant-faced, sat at some sort of control rig.

“Prisoner: awakens,” he said in a robotic voice.

“About fraggin’ time,” the lithe mech sneered, stepping back towards the flickering, wall-mounted lights.  The blackness of his paintjob grew clearer, as did his green detailing, his spiky ornamentation, his single hand.  “Leave it to a Tank to use the wrong stasis setting.  You’re lucky you didn’t kill ‘im.”

“Hey!” Brawl protested, half-heartedly.  The one-handed mech paid him no mind, instead, pulling an implement from his subspace, one that Swindle couldn’t quite make out, and fastening it to the empty socket of his right hand.

“I suppose we can get started then.”  It was a hook, Swindle realized, once the mech stepped closer, leaning in to plant its pointed tip beneath Swindle’s aching chin, and forcing eye-contact.  Swindle couldn’t stave off the trembling of his spark; it was all he could do to force the worst of it to his fingertips.  How could this have happened?

“Delay action,” his robotic companion insisted.

“What, why?”

“Connecting Senator Ratbat; please stand by.”  Swindle saw no change in the demeanor of that strange mech, but something must have changed, for a moment later, he said, “Permission to proceed: granted.”

“Ugh,” the hook-mech groaned, “you sure his highness wants to see such dubious dealings?”

From the robotic mech, a new voice sounded, tinny, as though through a comm, but louder, clearer, and more present than any comm Swindle had ever heard.  “I don’t pay you to worry about my welfare, Lockdown.  I pay you to get answers.”

Oh frag.  This was an interrogation.  He supposed Brawl had said as much earlier, but it was hard to keep his thoughts straight at the moment, between the pain and the recent stasis. The hook suddenly sliding along his jaw dragged him back to the very real threat at present.

“Yeah, yeah.”  A heavy black leg planted itself on Swindle’s too-big seat, tipping it backward; Swindle braced himself for the ensuing fall.  “You heard the boss, babyface.”  Ew.  “Let’s hear what you got to say about Onslaught.”

“O-Onslaught?”  Oh frag.  Had he really been dragged in here because of  _ that _ miscreant?  He nearly had to laugh at the idiocy of it all.  “There must be some mistake.  I’ve never even met the guy.”

Lockdown forced his foot down, bringing the chair clattering heavily forward.  Again, that unpleasant face had moved in close, cheerfully detached.  “Wrong answer, pet.”

“Wha –”  Before he could even finish speaking, Lockdown’s armguard flew across Swindle’s already-damaged face, hard enough to cave his helm vents and fill his vision with static.  Frag, the guy could hit hard.

“Care to try that again?”

Swindle choked back a sob of pain.  The world was spinning; his poor addled processor was doing its best to catch up with the motion of his helm, but the burn that blossomed outward from the dent was getting in the way.  “I –“ he coughed, “I don’t know what you want from me.  I know who the guy is – head of VRIO, veteran of the Quintesson Wars with more ambition than is healthy for a Delta to have, planning a charity gala next month, but it’s not like I work for the guy.”  The pointed end of the hook began ghosting its way down his cheek.  His eyes widened, locked on to that implement of pain.  “I’m telling the truth!”

His interrogator turned towards the door.  “Brawl?"

_ Brawl!   _ They were going to take Brawl’s word?  What had he done to deserve this phenomenally shitty day?

“Swindle was Blast Off’s Underground contact,” Brawl explained.  “The intelligence guy.”

“Blast Off left months ago!” Swindle protested.  “We worked out a deal, where I’d keep him abreast of Underground dealings, but he skipped town before I had the chance.  I swear!”

Brawl’s eyes grew wide, ashamed.  Lockdown, however, turned his attention to the room’s remaining occupant.  “Soundwave?”

“Lie: detected.”

“What?!”  It was the truth!   _ It was the truth! _  How did this mech know if he was lying or not anyway?!  Swindle aborted a high-pitched whimper as the hook dug into the protoform of his face, dragging a path down his cheek and to his jaw.  Energon dribbled down to his chin, then plinked off the armor of his chest.  What did this monster want from him?!

“Soundwave over there’s got these real fancy audials.  Mech can hear your fraggin’ intentions.  Isn’t that nifty?”

Swindle spared a horrified glance at Soundwave, who remained passive as ever.  What was it he was hearing?  Swindle  _ didn’t  _ know Onslaught.  What lie could he have heard? 

The hook dug into the un-dented side of his helm, turning Swindle’s head back towards its owner.  “Ah-ah, eyes on me, babyface.”

“Stop calling me that!”  His protestation earned him another smack.

“I’m the one in charge here, babyface.  I’ll call you what I want.  Now,” he leaned in close, “Onslaught.”

“What about Onslaught?” Swindle stalled, trying to call up everything he knew about the guy, in hopes that  _ something _ would stick.

“What is he planning?”

“I don’t –” the hook dangled dangerously in front of his left eye, and Swindle quickly rethought that train of thought.  He didn’t know what Onslaught was up to, but maybe sharing what little he  _ did  _ know would get these sadists to ease up.  “Look, I know he’s planning something shady at his gala – some kind of power play, but I don’t know the details.  I told you, I’m not in on it.”

Lockdown glanced towards Soundwave once again.

“Lie: not detected.”

“Well, well,” Lockdown sighed, placing his foot back on the chair.  “What a shame.”

Was that it?  Would they let him go now?

The tinny voice coming from Soundwave’s direction didn’t seem to think so.  “I think he knows more than he’s letting on.  How do you suppose he found out the gala was an excuse for a coup?”

“I never said it was a coup,” Swindle protested.  “I don’t know what it is!  Could be blackmail, could be a bargain, it could be anything!”  And just like that, he was falling backwards, a powerful kick to his charred chest to blame.  Lockdown must have been some sort of modified Speedster, based on the power in those legs.  The already damaged plating crunched beneath its might, and in the ensuing fall, his wheel arrays had been twisted out of alignment.  He was also sure he’d burst some minor fuel lines in his poor, trapped hands.  He cried out in pain.

“I don’t need your sass,” Lockdown smirked, kneeling over Swindle’s prone form.  “Why don’t you just answer the question.  How do you know so much, when you claim you don’t work for Onslaught?”

Swindle couldn’t hold back the shivering anymore.  This was too much, too familiar, too terrible  – Lockdown above him, the bringer of suffering, and him, at the mercy of a tyrant, broken and helpless .  “I – I’ve worked with his new assistant – a Rotary named Vortex.  He gave me a ticket – Blackjack and Catalyst too!  I don’t know how much he knows, but he definitely knows more than me!”

“What?!” Brawl’s roar was enough to momentarily distract Lockdown, who leaned away from Swindle, sighing angrily.

“If you can’t keep quiet –“ but Brawl didn’t let him finish.

“Onslaught would never hire Vortex!  Not after everything that shady little freak did to us!”

“Oh, so you know him?” Ratbat’s voice said.

“Yeah I know him,” Brawl growled.  “He’s the reason Onslaught fired me.  Said I’d jeopardized the mission by opening up to the little monster.  Onslaught didn’t want Vortex working for him, ‘cause he said he was a li – liba – libatility!”  Liability?  Vortex?  Wasn’t that the truth?  “He’d never let Vortex work for him!”

“Well he did!” Swindle snapped.  “Maybe he got desperate after Blast Off dumped his aft.  How should I know why they’re working together?  I’m.  Not.  Part of it!”  Lockdown was back again – too close!  Much too close!  The world beyond him was fading to nothing – it was just Swindle and a pair of glowing red eyes.   _ No, no, no!  Please no! _

“Lie: not detected,” Soundwave confirmed.  Swindle didn’t even think to vent a sigh of relief.  The judge may have been impartial, but the executioner was far from it.

“Well then,” Lockdown smiled, “why don’t you tell us where to find this Vortex?”

“I don’t know where he is,” Swindle said, voice far softer than he’d intended.  He’d already become acquainted with the price of not knowing.  That hook was above his eye again, drawing closer by the second.  “He’s been staying on the surface!  I don’t know where.  He’s not the type to stay in one place for long, and he’s very good at manipulating people into covering for him.  He could be anywhere, above ground or below it.”  Closer, closer the hook drew.  “Why do you even care?!” he squawked, “You clearly don’t give a scrap about arresting folks for no reason, and it’s not like you don’t know where Onslaught is.  Why don’t you just nab him and leave the rest of us alone?!”

Lockdown’s hook touched down, digging, digging into the delicate glass; it was beginning to crack beneath it.

“Onslaught is a popular public figure,” Ratbat’s voice explained; Lockdown let up on the pressure, looking towards Soundwave with an impatient frown.  “My image suffered a blow in the Underground Riot; I can’t afford to arrest Onslaught without definitive and blatantly clear proof.”

“He’s waiting ‘til the gala!” Brawl supplied, earning him a hiss from Ratbat.

“That is not something he needs to know!”

“Sorry!”

Ratbat was quick to calm himself.  “So you see, we have to content ourselves interrogating his little Underground nobodies.  You understand.”

Swindle only barely managed not to whimper.

“Tell us how to find this Vortex, and you can go.”

He wished he knew; he really, really did. 

“Better tell us something fast, babyface.  Wouldn’t want anything to happen to those pretty optics of yours.”  The hook was back, scratching fine lines into his eye.  It flickered weakly as it tried to remain online.

“He’s bound to turn up at Onslaught’s hq sooner or later,” Swindle whined in a flurry of words that he hoped Lockdown could understand.  “Maybe you can stalk him from there?  Or snatch him at border control.  I have his comm data.  I can give it to you if you want, but otherwise I just – I don’t know what to say.  I don’t know what Onslaught is planning, or how much Vortex even knows.  All  _ I _ know is that Onslaught’s got something big in store for his gala, and it involves both you, and the three most powerful mechs in the Underground.  That.  Is.  Everything.”

Lockdown smiled ominously.  “Soundwave?”

“Lie: not detected.”

“Senator?”

“I suppose there’s nothing more we can get from him.”

“Please,” Swindle begged, “let me go.”  He regretted saying it almost instantly.  Lockdown’s smile grew wider, sicker, and the gleam in his optics promised pain.

“Just let me leave you with a souvenir, babyface.”  The hook forced its way in.  Swindle’s left eye shattered.  He screamed.

~~~

“I am so sorry!” Brawl muttered for the eighteenth time.  Swindle had no response.  Ratbat had suggested Brawl put Swindle back where he found him, but Brawl, apparently having developed a conscience after that horrorshow, chose to disregard the order.  He wasn’t exactly bright, but even he knew that leaving Swindle in the Underground in his current state would result in one very dead Swindle.  

For his part, Swindle didn’t know where Brawl was carrying him, and he didn’t care.  All he wanted to do was sleep, a difficult task when Brawl wouldn’t shut up.  The mech was  _ loud. _

“I didn’t think it would be that bad.  I – I thought you were more involved than you were.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to get you hurt like that!”  Swindle narrowed his good optic, hoping the half-hearted attempt at a glare would be read.  Either it had, or something else was going on, for Brawl stopped walking.  He even set Swindle down, careful to make sure he was steady on his feet before letting go.

“This is the place.  Blast Off bought it for me, so it should still be mine.  You’ll be safe to rest up here.  No one will bother you.  I’ll – uh – I can get you a doctor if you want.”

The thought of more invasive hands left Swindle shaking, he collapsed backward, propped up only by quick thinking from Brawl.  “Or not.  I’ll uh – I’ll just let you deal with it.”  He moved around Swindle, carefully taking hold of his crumpled hand, and leading him up a flight of stairs, through a set of doors, and into a reception room, where a stern, bespectacled mech was looking over her datapad at them; Swindle couldn’t see well enough to read her expression, but Brawl offered her a wave.

“Hey Highstep.  Long time no see.” 

Highstep said nothing, instead returning to her datapad.

“That’s the landlady.  Call her if you need anything.”  With that said, he released Swindle’s hand, prying open the curled fingers until they lay flat.  It hurt, but compared to the pain in his face and chest, it was a day at the oil baths.  Brawl was quick to slip a small card with the numbers 1346 into the mangled appendage.  “This is the key to my room.  Just take the elevator over there up to the thirteenth floor, and go left.  Big door.  Can’t miss it.  I’m afraid there’s not much furniture or anything, but at least no one will try to kill you up there.” 

Swindle groaned weakly, and forced his fingers to close around the card.  Slowly, he turned his bleeding, battered face towards Brawl, forcing his broken jaw into the barest frown.  The aft had brought him this far; was he really going to leave him  _ now _ ?

“The senator’s been calling.  I don’t think he was expecting me to take so long,” he explained sheepishly.  “Otherwise I’d stick around.”

Swindle shook his head; the last thing he wanted to do was look at Brawl’s ugly face for another second.  He turned in a huff, overstepping, and nearly falling to the ground, but he caught himself at the last moment.  He didn’t look back, didn’t want to look back.  He was done with this day from the Pit.  All he wanted to do was lie down on some flat surface – berth or not, and pass out.

By some miracle he made it to room 1346.  For a moment, he thought he’d picked the wrong place; this room was fully-furnished, well-furnished too.  Clearly a mech of some means was living here – there was a table, two chairs, a sofa (all adjustable), a holocaster, sound system, energon storage cabinet, a desk, fairly nice computer setup, and three bookshelves in the front room alone.  It was nothing like the barren shack Brawl had described, but the number on the door was right, and the key  _ had  _ opened it.

Frag it all, Swindle didn’t care.  He trudged across the floor and collapsed on the sofa, heedless of the energon trail he left behind him.  At last, consciousness escaped him, granting him a short reprieve from the pain of existence.

~~~

Swindle wasn’t alone.  He could hear the shifting of gears, the clatter of metal, all far too close to his own position.  If not for the lack of sensation, he would have thought someone was touching him – taking advantage of his broken state to commit unspeakable atrocities.  On the other hand, he couldn’t feel the pain anymore either.  His entire body remained in a comfortable numbness, like when Hook disabled his pain sensors for mod installation surgery.  Come to think of it . . .

His optic fluttered online, to confirm his worst fear.  Someone was indeed messing around with his frame, and that someone was Vortex.   _ Frag me.  How could this day get any worse? _

Vortex seemed to notice Swindle’s change of state right away; his optics shifted upwards, from the vicinity of Swindle’s waist to his face.  His battle-mask was deployed, but the smile behind it remained clear as day.

“Frag it all, Vortex,” Swindle groaned, “what are you doing to me?”  He was not in the mood to deal with this mech’s fuckery.

“I’m helping!” Vortex chirped.  “I found you in my den all passed out and bleeding everywhere – not a pretty sight – so I figured I’d put all that hardwired medical knowledge I got to use.”

Shifting his head, Swindle could just see Vortex’s hands, fingers transformed to needle-sharp talons, holding the skeleton of Swindle’s own hand, wires exposed, and fuel lines leaking.  It was a gruesome sight.  Swindle would have pulled the hand away, if only he could have figured out how to move.  “You’re not a medic, Vortex!” he snapped with as much energy as he could muster.

“Hmm, no.  No I’m not,” Vortex agreed, returning his attention to Swindle’s hand.  A small flame erupted from one of his fingertips; what the frag was he doing?!

“ _ Vortex! _ ” Swindle hissed, “If you cause any permanent damage, I’m fining you.”

“I should be the one fining  _ you _ ,” Vortex retorted absently, his attention consumed by his task.  “But I’m such a nice guy, I’ll let it slide.  You spent all that time helping me, after all.  It’s only fair I return the favor.”

Swindle growled, wishing for all the world that he could  _ move _ .  “The difference is, I never attempted medical procedures I haven’t been trained in.”

Vortex shrugged.  “Relax, Swin.  It’s nothing I can’t handle.  I know hands like the – ah, like the back of my hand.  Like I said, I got the root coding, and I’ve been harvesting organs for  _ how _ long?”

“There’s a difference between taking something apart and putting it back together.”

“True,” Vortex laughed.  “S’why I ain’t messin’ with your optic there.  But hands, I can do.  Cuts?  No problem.  Burns?  Dents?  Misalignments?  Primus knows I’ve had to fix myself more times than I can count.  I’ll fix you up, and we’ll get you to . . .” he trailed off, meeting Swindle’s eyes once again.  “Come to think of it, how did you get up here?  You don’t got a comm yet.”

Swindle snorted.  “Brawl arrested me.”

“Brawl did?”  Vortex snorted, then returned to the hand.  “I was wonderin’ where he got off to.  Ain’t seen him underground for a while now.”

“He’s working for Ratbat,” Swindle groaned, earning a pause from Vortex.

“Ratbat?  Why would Ratbat wanna arrest  _ you _ ?  He knows better than to mess around in the Underground.  So much pressure building down there, it’s like to burst at the smallest thing.  I think he saw that back with the riots.”

Swindle couldn’t feel his teeth grinding together, but he could definitely hear them.  “He arrested me, because Brawl thought I was working for Onslaught.”

Vortex’s attention snapped away from the task at hand in an instant, followed immediately by a nerve-wracking, “Aw frag!”

“What?  What did you do?!”

Vortex peered up at Swindle from beneath the crown of his hand.  “Nothing I can’t fix, don’t worry.”

“I do worry,” Swindle groaned, prompting a guilty laugh from Vortex.

“Relax.  My hand slipped is all.  Just gotta snippy, snippy, torchy, torchy.  You just keep going.”

“I think I’d feel safer if I didn’t,” he sighed.  Of course, Vortex could never be so easily managed.

“Uh-huh,” he said, distracted once more.  “So what, Brawlie picks you up off the street, takes you to Ratbat’s super-secret bunker, roughs you up for a bit . . . Primus, no wonder you’re such a wreck.  And then Brawlie brought you back here afterward right?  He didn’t bring you up, did he?  I can’t imagine he did – there was a trail of energon all the way from the elevator.  Highstep was  _ not _ happy,” he laughed.

“Brawl doesn’t know you’re here.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Vortex chuckled, lifting the hand into Swindle’s line of sight, and giving it an experimental pat.  It clenched beneath his touch.  “Hmm, looks like this thing’s back in shape.  Just gotta put the armor back on, and we’re good to go!”

“Thank Primus.”

Vortex lowered the appendage, and began fishing around for parts beyond Swindle’s field of vision.  “So, what did small, purple, and haughty wanna know?  What Onslaught’s up to?”

“Pretty much,” Swindle croaked.

“Ah, too bad for him you ain’t involved.  Too bad for you too, I guess.”  Vortex gave a sympathetic nod.  “I take it he wasn’t happy.”

“Understatement,” Swindle sighed, letting his helm roll to the side.  It seemed that Vortex had hammered out his dented vents at least; how nice of him.

“So what did you end up telling him?”

Dare he say it?  Swindle couldn’t imagine Vortex would be happy knowing that he’d sent their tyrant of a ruler after  _ him _ , but he was already at Vortex’s mercy, and as scary as Lockdown had been, Vortex was scarier still.  He didn’t want this to turn into another interrogation.  “I told him that Onslaught’s planning  _ something _ at the gala, and I told him that you know better than me.”

For one horrifying moment, Vortex said nothing at all.  Had Swindle answered wrong?  He was so vulnerable right now!  What if Vortex tried to kill him?  Or worse?  But no.  Vortex laughed, then moved out of sight, returning shortly with a chair.  He straddled the thing, facing the wrong way, using its back as a chinrest.

“There, all done!  Sorry I can’t do nothin’ about the optic.”

Swindle stared, scrutinizing.  “It’s ah, fine,” he said.  Should he say it?  Frag it all.  “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” Vortex cocked his head.  “Why would I be mad?  Ons plans for like, everything!  He figured Ratbat already knew he was up to something with the whole gala thing.  And he even has a contingency plan in the works in the event  _ I _ get captured; not that I intend to,” he laughed. 

“And if you do?” Swindle insisted, shaking his helm and wishing he could make an angry fist instead.  “They got a guy who can hear if you’re lying.  He can hear if you’re not being forthright too.  You can’t hide anything from that psycho.”

Vortex’s head moved further sideways; surely that couldn’t have been comfortable.  “Please, Swindle, I’m not  _ you _ .  I’m far more annoying for one.”

Lie: not detected.

Swindle shook his head to clear the thought.  What did he care if Vortex got himself tortured?  The mech got off on pain.  Pit, he was probably looking forward to meeting Mr. Interrogator face-to-face.  A match made in Hell.

“So, you gonna turn my motor functions back on?”

Vortex slumped farther into the chair.  “I mean, I  _ could _ , I guess.  You shouldn’t really be moving around right now though.  Gotta give your self-repairs a chance to supplement the work I did.”

“Do I even want to know what my hands look like?”

Vortex didn’t hesitate to reach out, and lift one perfectly-normal hand into Swindle’s line of sight.  “I did a good job, Swin.  It hurts that you don’t trust me.”  He dropped the thing just as quickly, letting it flop onto the sofa.  That probably wasn’t very good for it.

It was Swindle’s turn to cock his head.  “Why are you doing all this?  I practically handed you over to Ratbat.  I’m a wreck you could easily-take advantage of.  I don’t even really like you all that much.  So why are you helping me?”

Vortex popped up from behind the back of the chair.  “Would you rather I harvest your organs?  ‘Cause I mean, if you really want me to, I could do that.  I’ll even split the profits with you.”

Swindle glared, earning him a tired laugh.

“I wasn’t kidding earlier.  I mean, after putting up with me these past what, nine months, I’d say I’m in your debt, don’t you think?  And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you always collect on your debts.”

Swindle pursed his lips.  He supposed that was true.

“Besides,” Vortex chimed, patting Swindle on the head.  “We’re friends, remember?  Friends don’t let friends bleed to death on the couch.”

“I . . . guess that makes sense,” Swindle sighed.  He wasn’t one hundred percent sure he believed Vortex, but it was just as likely the psycho was telling the truth.  There wasn’t anything he could do either way.

Vortex rose to his feet, kicking the chair away and stretching tall.  “Well, anyway, I’ve had a big day, it’s late, and both of us could do with some rest, so I’m gonna go ahead and pass out.  You should do the same.  You got my comm if you need anything.  I’ll turn your motor relay and touch receptors back on in the morning.  Night buddy!”  With that said, he gave a flippant wave and trotted off to a side room, out of sight.

This had well been one of the worst days of Swindle’s life to date.  He’d been assaulted, abducted, tortured, and unintentionally dropped on Vortex’s lap.  But on the bright side, for the moment, he was safe.  And better yet, he was on the surface.  He wouldn’t have to drop another half-million on a comm for himself.   _ Silver lining, Swindle.  You’re on the surface now.  Better make the most of it. _

And he had every intention of doing so.  If he was one of the wealthiest mechs in the Underground before, well, by the end of the year he’d be one of the wealthiest mechs in all of Kaon.  If that wasn’t a silver lining, he didn’t know what was. 

  
  



	18. Hunter/Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawl gets assigned the task of bringing in Vortex for questioning. He is less than thrilled.

Brawl was a dutiful mech.  If he had been anything else, then he would have refused the mission.  But Senator Ratbat had commanded it, and so here Brawl was, hiding around a corner half a block away from VRIO’s hq like some common thug.  He was hardly inconspicuous; had he not been wearing the sigil of Senator Ratbat on his forearms and turret, this sort of behavior would have surely gotten him arrested.

As it was, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be here.  Vortex was the mech that had single-handedly ruined Brawl’s life.  He was a manipulative little con-artist that had ripped Brawl’s still-pulsing spark from his chest and stomped all over it, and then, after putting poor Brawl through the Pit, had the audacity to get a job working directly under Onslaught, a position that Brawl had long wanted and long been denied.  If Brawl saw that ugly little face again, he would like nothing more than pound it in until it stopped moving.  Ratbat, however, wanted to interrogate the freak, and so Brawl would hold back.  Capture, not kill.

It was going to be a difficult mission.

He’d been waiting for hours, not sure when his target had arrived, or when he would leave, or if he was even there at all.  It would all be easier if he could just go inside and arrest the obnoxious Rotary, but Ratbat had said doing so was ‘too conspicuous.’  Like  _ this _ wasn’t?  Nothing about Brawl was inconspicuous.  Nothing about a Tank staking out a District Two business for fourteen straight hours was inconspicuous either.  By this point, part of him was wishing for some sort of catastrophe to occur, just so he’d have an excuse to get out of here.

His comm chimed with an unknown frequency – Senator Ratbat.

“Sir!” he barked, standing to attention, even though he was alone.

“Report,” the senator’s high, haughty voice barked.  He’d called twice already, at the five and ten-hour mark.   Primus, did that mean he was at fifteen?

“Nothing has changed, Sir,” Brawl replied sheepishly.  “If the target is here, then he’s still inside.”  He could hear the senator’s teeth grinding over the line.

“Very well,” the senator said.  “Remain there.  Ratbat out.”  Without further warning, he cut the call.  Brawl wished he hadn’t.  He would have loved permission to go inside, to move to a different location, to talk to Onslaught,  _ anything _ that would get him out of his current predicament, but there was no questioning the diminutive senator.  How was he supposed to just sit here for  _ another _ five hours?

The comm rang again, much to Brawl’s surprise.  It was Senator Ratbat, calling back.  Perhaps he had new orders after all.  Brawl didn’t hesitate to pick up.

“Sir!” he barked, hoping his relief was clear.

The voice that replied, however, was low and raspy, and did not sound much like the senator at all.  “I’m sorry, Brawl, was it?”

“Yes?” he replied, uncertain whether or not he should be answering.  “Who is this?  And why do you have my frequency?”

“It’s Senator Ratbat, you dolt!” the mech on the other end snapped back.

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

“Is that how you talk to your senator?!”  It didn’t sound much like him, but the attitude was about right.

“No sir.”

“That’s right,” Senator Ratbat sneered.  “Now, as for the voice, that is, frankly, not the business of a lowly grunt.  Your job is to apprehend that criminal, is it not?”

“Yes sir!”  Brawl agreed with extra enthusiasm, hoping it would hide his irritation.

“And he hasn’t shown his face  _ yet? _ ”

“No sir.”

“Hmm.”  There was a long silence, as Ratbat pondered the information that, by all rights, he already knew.  Maybe this time he’d do something about it though.   _ Oh please send me somewhere else!  Please send me somewhere else! _  “What is your current location?”

“Coordinates: K1D2-S41.5-SS10 –”

“What do you take me for, a lowly soldier?   _ Location _ , not coordinates.”

“Oh.”  Brawl cringed – Senator Ratbat was in a foul mood today.  “I’m in the alley just south of VRIO’s hq.”

“Got it.  Stay there.  Ratbat out.” 

Brawl didn’t understand any of this.  What was the senator planning, and why was he behaving so strangely?

“Hiya Brawlie!”

Brawl whirled around, slamming a fist into the empty air at his back.  Several feet ahead, the devil himself sat on an upturned bin, his feet dangling over the edge. 

“Vortex!”

“Yeesh,” he laughed.  “Is that how they say hello in District Zero?  ‘Cause it’s kinda rude.  Someone coulda got hurt.”

Brawl saw red.  He wanted to beat that presumed smug smirk off of Vortex’s hidden face, and no order was going to get in his way.  Senator Ratbat had never said he couldn’t rough the target up, after all.  As he began his charge, however, the little rat leapt in the air, locking his blades into flight position, and using their lift to boost him onto a nearby balcony.

“Careful, Brawlie.  You’ve been waiting to catch me for fifteen hours.  How embarrassing would it be if I just – slipped away  _ now _ ?”

His initial thought was to call out Vortex for hiding out of reach, but before he had the chance to protest, the rest of Vortex’s words hit him.  “You . . . knew I was here the whole time?”

“Well, not  _ here _ , exactly,” the aft retorted, leaning on the railing.  “But yeah.  I knew you were waiting for me.”

“ _ How _ ?!”  Brawl couldn’t understand it.  Had someone tattled on him?  The senator should have sent someone else!  The plan was ruined now!

Vortex shrugged.  “You never did get your comm reformatted, did you?”

What?  He  _ hacked  _ him?  When?  Brawl hadn’t seen Vortex since that night with Blast Off!  Besides, “Senator Ratbat boosted my firewalls.  You shouldn’t be able to hack my comm!”

“That’s old news, Brawlie.  I’ve had a backdoor into your head for months now.  Did you really think a better firewall would fix that?”

Brawl didn’t feel so good.  How much deeper could betrayal cut?  His targeting protocols appeared on his HUD, centering Vortex in their sights.  It would be so easy to just fire, consequences be damned.  Senator Ratbat should have known better than to give a city-dwelling Tank access to his weapons systems, after all.  He could hardly be blamed for using them.

“You okay there, Brawlie?”  He looked nervous.  Good.

“I can’t believe you!  In my  _ head _ !  What is wrong with you?!”

Vortex glanced around the alleyway.  At its mouth, a few concerned onlookers were beginning to gather.  “I dunno Brawl, do you think you could yell it a little louder?  I don’t think Senator Ratbat heard us.”

“What?!”  Brawl froze, his tanks turning to ice.  Was Vortex in league with the senator  _ too _ ?  How could he –

“It’s a joke, Brawlie,” Vortex sighed, slumping forward.  “Because you’re loud, and he’s, y’know, miles away?  Man, it’s not funny if you gotta explain it.”

It was . . . a joke?  Of course it was!  It was obviously a joke.  Brawl felt dizzy from embarrassment; he stumbled backwards, shaking his head.  How stupid was he?  And worse, he, an agent of Senator Ratbat, had been made a mockery of in front of an audience.  Could this day get any worse? 

“It wasn’t very funny to begin with,” Brawl grumbled, trying to save face.

“Apparently not,” Vortex sighed.  He was no longer looking at Brawl but at his fingers, which he was walking along the railing of the balcony.  Was he bored already?

“Why are you here?” Brawl asked slowly, hoping to make Mr. Irritating sit up and pay attention.

Mr. Irritating did not sit up and pay attention.  Apparently his fingers were just too interesting.

“Vortex!”

“I was hoping to chat,” he said at last.  In Brawl’s humble opinion, he didn’t sound very sincere.

“Why?”

Vortex sighed dramatically, as though the reason should have been obvious, and Brawl was a fool for missing it.  Targeting systems began to lock on again.   _ No!  The senator will kill me! _

“I feel like we parted on bad terms after our last conversation.”  Hahah, understatement.  “I thought I’d take the chance to clear the air between us.  I mean, what you did to poor Swindle – that was a cry for help if ever I saw one.  So why don’t you stop pointing your barrel at me, and I’ll come down and talk to you all friendly like.” 

Frag, he  _ was _ pointing his gun barrel, wasn’t he?  He stood up straighter, and once again, dismissed his targeting systems.  “Fine.  Get down here and apologize for what you did to me.”

“What I did to you?”  In one smooth motion, Vortex leapt over the railing and landed gracefully on the ground below.  Show off.  “What exactly did I do to you again?”

Brawl clenched his fists, using every ounce of restraint he had to keep himself from throttling Vortex right there.  “What exactly did you – you ruined my life, is what you did!”

Vortex, however, cocked his helm, big red eyes wide and innocent behind his visor.  “I’m sorry, I did what now?”

“You heard me!”

“Well yes, it would be very hard not to,” he mocked, though he backed off when Brawl took a heavy, threatening step forward.  “What I mean is, how could I have possibly ruined your life?  We met like, twice, and if I recall correctly – I mean, I might not.  Did you know I was recovering from brain damage when – well, when you kidnapped me.  Right?  That’s what happened.  Time number two.”

“I  _ saved _ you!” Brawl snapped back.

“Yeah.  You saved me, took me to Hook, then kidnapped me and tried to kill me.”

“Because you betrayed me!” Brawl didn’t care that crowds were forming at either end of the alley now.  Let the world know what a conniving little wretch Vortex was.

Vortex, as predicted, didn’t seem remotely appalled by being confronted with his evil actions.  “I’m sorry, how could I betray you?  Usually there has to be some kind of loyalty established, and as I just said, we met  _ once _ before that point.”

“You led me on!” Brawl protested.  “You made me think you loved me!”

Vortex, damn him for it, rolled his optics.  “We had a one-night stand.  Sure, I used you to get closer to your employer, but I mean,  _ come on _ !  You had people on all sides warning you not to fall in love with me, but you ignored them.  ‘This guy I just met – I bet he’s trustworthy!’  That’s you, by the way.”  His Brawl impression sounded an awful lot like the senator had in his previous . . .

Wait a minute.

“Did you just impersonate –”

“Don’t be offended, Brawlie,” Vortex interrupted.  “It’s not my fault that you misinterpreted my intentions.  All of the warning signs were there.  Honestly, even  _ I _ was surprised by just how hard you fell for me.  I enjoyed our time together, but come  _ on _ , Brawl, it was obviously just a brief fling.  Surely you’ve had those before, right?”

“Don’t lie!” Brawl snapped.  “You knew exactly what you were doing!”

“And it’s not my fault you didn’t.  I mean, really, is it me you’re mad at?”

“Yes!”

Vortex laughed, shaking his head.  “Let me finish, Brawl.  Is it me you’re mad at, or yourself?”

_ Frag _ .

He hadn’t considered it before, but now that Vortex mentioned it, maybe it wasn’t too off-base.  He was the one who had failed, after all.  He’d trusted Vortex when everyone had told him not to.  He’d kept putting his faith in Onslaught, long after it had become clear Onslaught had no faith in  _ him _ .  He’d insisted that Blast Off was his friend, right up until the moment Blast Off ditched him.  All of the warning signs were there and he’d stubbornly ignored them every time.  Vortex was right.  The little aft was an easy target, but he was incidental, wasn’t he?  Brawl was the one who deserved to be throttled.

“You alright there, Brawlie?”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he said, slumping to the ground.  Primus, what a fool he was.  Hesitantly, Vortex moved closer, then lay a comforting hand on his treads.  Brawl didn’t even care enough to watch it.  Let him get hacked again; what did it matter?

But Vortex didn’t hack him.  Instead, he propped himself up on that tread, resting his chin on the rough surface, and wrapped both arms around Brawl’s one.  “See, don’t you feel better now?”

“No.”

Vortex nuzzled his mask against the tread with a soft laugh.  “Aww, don’t be like that.  Acceptance is the first step to recovery, you know.”

“I guess.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, as Vortex considered if what he was about to do was a good idea, before a pile of wiry copter limbs had scrambled their way into Brawl’s lap.  Vortex sat on his knees, resting his hands-on Brawl’s shoulders, and pressed their faces so close that their masks touched.  Brawl could see the mechanisms of Vortex’s optics through his visor, they were so close.  They were kind of . . . maybe not pretty, but pleasant, at least.

“What are you doing?” he grumbled, turning his face away.  Naturally, Vortex followed the motion.  There was no escaping that glitch-head.

“I thought we could have a more . . . intimate conversation like this.  I don’t need the whole world listening in.”  He made a quick gesture towards the alley entrances, where bystanders were trying very hard to appear as though they hadn’t been snooping.

“Why?” Brawl groaned, trying again in vain to dislodge Vortex.  He settled for averting his optics.  “Aren’t we done here?”

“Not exactly,” Vortex chirped.  “You’re here on business; I admit, I’ve got some of my own to attend to.”

“Really?”  Brawl snorted and this time, tried more forcefully to remove the Rotary from his lap.  A heavy hand reached behind the smaller mech’s back with ease, and grabbed onto the rotor array.  Behind his visor, Vortex’s optics shuttered, and he slumped backwards with a soft moan.

“That’s cheating.”

Brawl used his leverage to lift the content Copter from his lap, but there was nowhere to deposit him that wouldn’t undo his accomplishment.  Unsure of what to do, he kept holding on.  “Why the frag do you like this so much anyway?  Seems to me like it would hurt.”

“It does,” Vortex confirmed, sleepily.  “But I like it.”  Creep.  He hung in the air limply for what must have been several minutes; Primus, had he really fallen asleep?

“Vortex?”

“Mmm, business, right,” he sighed.  Without warning, his rotors locked up and begun to move, spinning easily in Brawl’s lax grasp.  Startled, he let go, and Vortex fell to the ground.  He didn’t stand back up, however.  Instead, he shifted positions, until he was mirroring Brawl’s current state: knees bent, feet flat on the ground.  “So, Onslaught.”

Brawl narrowed his optics.

“Bad blood there; I get that,” he nodded thoughtfully.  “But you clearly wanted to work for him at one point, and I get that too.  He really is a magical mech.”

“You’re pissing me off,” Brawl warned.

“Would you ever consider working for him again, y’know, if he offered?”

What was this guy on about?  Working for Onslaught?  Onslaught, the traitor?  Onslaught of little faith?  Onslaught who had led him on and made false promises, then dumped him when he was no longer useful?  “Yeah right.  That’ll never happen.”

“What, the job offer, or you taking it?”  Vortex sat up, curiosity sparkling in his optics.

“Both!  I’m not smart enough to joint Onslaught’s group of elite fragholes, and I’m not dumb enough to say ‘yes,’ even if he did ask.”

“You’re really mad at him, ain’tcha?” Vortex laughed, before shifting to his knees.

“Ya think?  Guy dumped me like a lame Speedster, then replaced me with  _ you. _ ”

“To be fair, he actually replaced  _ Blast Off _ with me.”

Brawl glared.

“Okay, okay.”  Vortex shook his head and crawled back to his feet.  “It’s obvious in retrospect that Ons didn’t handle your situation well.”

“Don’t call him that.  Onslaught despises nicknames.”

Vortex brushed off the warning.  “Why do you care?  I thought you hated him.”  He shifted closer, his eye on Brawl’s lap again.  Brawl tensed, ready to deflect a sudden assault.

“I never said that.  I said I was mad at him.  But I don’t hate him.  How could I hate him?  He saved my life.” 

Vortex’s optics shifted back up to Brawl’s face.  “Oh yeah?  Back in the war?”

“Yeah!” Brawl nodded, brightening up.  As much as he’d despised it at the time, he missed the war.  He missed knowing what to do, where to go.  He missed his unit and he missed the camaraderie, and he missed the respect and appreciation.  He never would have thought slipping into a normal life would be so hard.  “My first mission.  Archa Seven.”

Vortex stiffened.  “Archa what now?”  What was  _ his _ deal? 

“Archa Seven, the spider planet.  The Quints and the Arachnoids had teamed up, and it was our job to break the alliance and lay claim to the planet’s energon reserves.”

“And . . .  a spider almost got you?” Vortex asked, strangely hesitant.  It was kind of cute to see the little guy so nervous – awakened the protective instinct in Brawl.  He leaned forward and clapped a hand on the mech’s shoulder, surprised to see him flinch.

“Nah, no need to worry your head about spiders.  They were tough, but we were tougher,” he laughed.  “Our guys cooked up this super weapon or something, and it killed the spiders just fine, but then it backfired and wiped out like, a whole lot of our guys too.  Dunno what it was, but I got scooped up in the air like I weighed nothing.  Like, it was crazy – a flying tank!  Tanks ain’t meant to fly, and for good reason.  First crash wasn’t lethal; I was lucky, but fragged me up real good.  Onslaught dragged me to safety before that freak windstorm came back around.  He saved a bunch of other guys too.  Got a medal for his efforts.”

“You . . . don’t say.”  He was looking at the ground now.  That story had really upset him.  How strange, that mere minutes ago, Brawl wanted to tear this guy apart, only to now find himself wanting to comfort him instead.  He pulled the yielding Rotary into his lap, despite his processor’s insistence that it was a bad idea. 

“Yeah.  Onslaught’s a real great guy.  A fraggin’ hero.  He doesn’t deserve the slag the military did to him.  He’s better than all of them senators.  I served under him for vorns; I know him!  He was a good guy.  A smart guy.  Never lost a mech after that first mission.   _ Five vorns _ and zero casualties?  And we were like, on the front lines.  You name me one other mech who can boast that.”

Vortex said nothing. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.  Everyone wanted to be in Onslaught’s unit, ‘cause we got results.  We won Caminus and Paradron, we turned the tide at Eurythma, and negotiated treaties with the Nebulons, Skuxxoids, and Abraxians.  We also kept Kol out of the war, and trust me, scrap would have been dropped in the smelter had the Kol joined the war.  Onslaught’s a hero!  So yeah, how could I hate him?  Frag, it’s hard to believe I’m mad at him . . .”

_ Was _ he mad at Onslaught?  True, Onslaught had laid him off, but it was  _ Onslaught _ .  He always knew what he was doing, always worked towards the greater good.  If he fired Brawl, then surely that was part of the plan too.  That, or Brawl had jeopardized the mission to the extent that it was safer to simply let him go.  Frag, he was such an idiot!

_ Would you ever consider working for him again? _

Brawl wanted nothing more.

In his lap, Vortex shifted, finally pulling himself together after the upsetting story of Brawl’s near-death.  Maybe  _ he _ cared too.

_ Yeah right! _

“Well,” he said, wriggling out of Brawl’s grasp and hopping back to his feet.  “It sounds to me like you like him a whole lot.  That’s good.  ‘Cause whether you want it or not, he  _ will _ lure you back sooner or later, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”  And then, with that said, he held up his hands, palms-up.  What was this weirdo doing?  Brawl could only stare dumbly and wonder.

“Aren’t you gonna arrest me?”

“What?”  Was he serious?

“It’s why you came out here, isn’t it?  C’mon, I don’t got all day.”  He thrust his upturned wrists forward impatiently.

“You  _ want _ me to arrest you?  Why?”

“Huh, I thought this was an arrest, not an interrogation.  Now hurry up and cuff me before I change my mind.”

Brawl didn’t need to be told a third time.  He pulled the stasis cuffs from his subspace and slapped them on Vortex’s wrists, careful to put them on the right setting this time.  It was hard to be a good judge of size-class when you were as big as Brawl.  Fortunately, they seemed to have the right effect.  Within seconds, Vortex was slumping limply forward, straight into Brawl’s waiting arms.

He received plenty of suspicious glances as he marched through town with his unconscious prisoner, but he didn’t let them get to him.  He was Ratbat’s man; he could do whatever he wanted.  Though how long that would remain to be true was up for speculation.  Minds were changing, slowly but surely, as Onslaught kept up his work.  Maybe this, right now, walking around with such a small, weak-looking prisoner, was seen by some as an abuse of power rather than defending the peace.  Maybe change was in the air.  And when that time came, Brawl wanted to be on Onslaught’s side.

He brought Vortex all the way to Ratbat’s manor in District Zero, through the reinforced front gate, down into the hidden bomb shelter, beyond three password-protected lead doors, and into the interrogation hall, where Lockdown and Soundwave were already waiting.

“We’ve got it from here, Bumble,” said Lockdown, taking Vortex’s limp frame from his arms.

“It’s Brawl.”

“Yeah, whatever.  Soundwave, make sure he’s secure.”  The pair set about the task of restricting their prisoner’s ability to escape, in preparation for the upcoming interrogation.  Brawl stood by, watching uncomfortably.

“What can I do?”

The eyeroll Lockdown gave him was less-than encouraging.  “You can go back to the barracks and await further orders.  We don’t need you in here on this one.”

“What?  But I’m the one who caught him!  I should be able to –”

“Brawl,” Soundwave’s robotic voice called out, “order: given.  Return to barracks and prepare mission report.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Brawl reluctantly obeyed.  Lockdown may have been the powerhouse between the two, but Soundwave was Senator Ratbat’s personal assistant; crossing him would not end well.  So instead, despite his irrational worries over the safety of a mech he was meant to hate, Brawl turned his back on the scene and did as he was told.  It didn’t matter what happened in there.  Vortex had given himself up.  Brawl had no doubts that Onslaught had ordered it, and if Onslaught ordered it, then the grand plan was already in motion. 

Brawl couldn’t wait to see how it ended.


	19. Tornado

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time it's Vortex's turn for interrogation! But he might just be a tougher egg to crack.

He’d forgotten how much stasis sucked.  After a short eternity, the cuffs had been finally been deactivated to allow him conscious thought, not that it made much of a difference.  His head was heavy, his spinal struts stiff, his joints creaked, and his tanks threatened to purge.  It was like the sixteenth worst hangover of his life, only without any of the fun parts leading up to hit.  His hands were bound behind the chair they’d dumped him in, and, more annoying, someone had managed to slip his rotors through the slats, further prohibiting his movement.  He really was starting to regret agreeing to this plan.

“Struggle all you like, pet,” a deep voice mocked.  “You ain’t gettin’ outta that.”

Blearily, Vortex let his optics flicker on.  Most of his field of vision was taken up by a tall mech, with black plating and a skull-like face.  The rest of the room was too poorly-lit to make out much detail, but the hum of an engine told him they were not alone.  Someone else, most likely something with an immobile alt mode, by the sound of it, was watching the interrogation from the far wall.  Interesting.   Were they gonna try the ‘good cop bad cop’ routine?  Because Vortex loved that one.

“Is it mornin’ already?” he sighed, letting his optics flicker a few times, sleepy and coy.  Tall, Dark, and Grumpy was not impressed.  A hooked hand slid up Vortex’s chest, his throat, resting just beneath his chin.  Truth be told, it was kinda hot.  Vortex shuddered.

“Not quite, love,” he said, his voice dripping with slime.  Aww, he thought he was intimidating.

“Well, if that’s the case, I think I’d like to go back to sleep,” Vortex said, innocently.  For his flippancy, he earned a heavy slap across the face that left his head spinning.  “Whoa,” he giggled.

The underwhelming reaction was far from what the interrogator had desired, if his annoyed grunt was anything to go by, but the mech tried his hardest to regain his control of the situation anyway.  “I don’t appreciate games, love,” he growled, up close and personal.  “However, if you’d like me to let you go with only minimal damage, then you can help yourself by answering all my questions economically.”

“’Economically,’” Vortex snorted.  How pretentious.  “Yeah, sure.  I can do that, I guess.  Whatcha wanna know?”

The mech narrowed his optics.  “You do realize this is an interrogation?”

“Well obviously,” Vortex replied with a nod.  “Why else would I be tied to a chair in some dark and claustrophobic room.  Oh!  How was that for an ‘economical’ answer?”

Mr. Interrogator raised a knee and slammed his foot down hard on Vortex’s thigh, denting the metal.  It hurt so good, Vortex couldn’t hold back a moan.

“Frag,” he groaned, “you hit hard.”

“And I can hit harder than that,” the mech sneered, mistaking Vortex’s moans for signs of pain.  “Now why don’t you be a dear and cooperate?”

“Am I not?” Vortex asked back with wide, innocent optics.  “I answered your question and everything!  What more do I gotta do?”  He may have felt like hot slag, but at least antagonizing the interrogator was fun.  It had barely been a minute, and already, the poor idiot was grinding his teeth.  It was music to Vortex’s audials.

Another fist flew across his face, knocking him and the chair alike to the ground.  He gave off a sharp cackle that his new buddy probably, once again, mistook for a cry of pain.  Poor, naïve schmuck.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of your situation, Vortex,” he said, planting a foot on Vortex’s exposed side and pressing down.

“Ooh, are we on a first-name basis now?” he laughed, relishing in the sensation of being crushed.  “I can get behind that!  What’s your name, Mr. Big, Bad Interrogator?”

In response, the mech kicked him in the head, hard enough to knock him senseless.  Vortex’s optics flickered out, leaving him blind.  Frag it all; he hated not being able to see.

“Have I made my point yet?”

This time, it took Vortex a moment to respond.  He’d cracked a line in his face, which had left hydraulic fluid spurting into his mouth.  It tasted like the exhaust of an Industiral Heavy mixed with the flattest energon known to Cybertron.  Gross.  He sputtered, trying to direct that nasty, amber fluid away from his intake and down his chin.  “Yes, sir!  You’re very good at kicking sir!”  He received another stomping for his troubles, to the side this time.  His poor rotors, still trapped between the slats of the chair, bent beneath its force.  It hurt like the Pit.  “Ah!”

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Vortex.”

And Vortex didn’t much appreciate being kicked in the face.  He liked crushing, tearing, slicing, grabbing, even throwing wasn’t so bad, but blunt blows were just so boring.  A moment of impact and then all he was left with was the ache.  The least Mr. Interrogator could do was pin him down while he did so.  He groaned, twitching sadly on the floor.  “So uh, are you ever going actually interrogate me, or is this just how you get your rocks off?  I mean, I’m fine with whatever, but I’d at least like to know what to expect.  It’s a little unclear.”

He heard gears grinding sharply from the interrogator’s direction (yeesh, that sounded painful), but he did not move to attack again.  “Very well.  You want questions?  We’ll start with this: how do you know Onslaught?”

“Really?” Vortex sighed, trying vainly to reboot his optics.  “I’d have thought you already knew, what with y’all posting Brawl in front of his office to snatch me up.”  When the mech didn’t respond, Vortex decided to throw him a few more scraps.  “I work for him, obviously.  The frag kind of interrogator are you anyway – asking me questions you already know the answer to.”

A strong hand found its way to the back of Vortex’s neck, and with a surprising show of strength, the interrogator lifted Vortex from the floor, chair and all, and set him back upright.  “What is he planning?”

Vortex shook his head, trying to clear away the fog that the sudden change in orientation had summoned.  “Uh, if I knew that, do you really think I would have given myself up?”

The hook wrapped itself around the back of his neck, pulling him in as close as could be managed, given his confined rotors, currently straining painfully in their hub.  Poor things.  “You wanna try answering that again?”

“Not really, no.”

The mech jerked his hand away, and Vortex followed, his rotor hub creaking ominously beneath the pressure.  A few of the more delicate sensory wires along the base were beginning to snap.  Frag, it hurt so good. 

“Okay, Mr. Demandy-Face.  Since you seem to be incapable of using your words, I’ll give you a hand, just this once.  Ons and I knew that you were lookin’ for me – thank you Swindle – and we figured that avoiding your lot was more trouble than it was worth, especially considering I know jack about what he’s planning.  All I do is go where he tells me, when he tells me, and do  _ what _ he tells me.  I don’t ask why.  That would ruin the surprise.”

“What surprise?”

Vortex shrugged, an action which forced an audial-splitting shriek from his poor, abused shoulder joint.  “Something to do with the gala.  For all I know, he’s gonna let loose a swarm of petrorabbits on the festivities.  I’ve been trying to wheedle it outta him, but he’s been pretty tight-lipped.  I think he suspected something like this would happen.”

There!  Vortex got his optics to flicker back on just in time to see the interrogator narrow his optics like a petulant protoform.  How precious!  “And you expect me to believe this?”

“What, you don’t?  C’mon, what do you want me to say?  That Onslaught is planning to assassinate Senator Ratbat in front of the world?  ‘Cause I’m more than willing to say that if you want me to.”

“Is he?”

Vortex chuckled.  “Aww, is our esteemed senator afraid of a little nobody war mech?  Guy is doin’ pretty well for himself.  If you’re not careful, he might prove that the whole philosophy you’ve built your society on is a load of slag.”

“Hold your tongue,” the interrogator said, staring hard, as though trying to find any cracks in Vortex’s impenetrable forcefield of wit and masochism.

“Why?  It’s a pretty good observation.  Pit, maybe that’s what Onslaught is planning?  Maybe he plans to stick it to Ol’ Rats by throwing a perfectly successful hoity toity event for the rich.  That’s it, right?  That’ll make him a  _ real _ mech?  It’s genius!”

The interrogator growled, deep in his throat.

“Though I guess the real question is what Ratty-Batty intends to do about it.  He needs something like this to save his image, right?  After that whole Underground riot thing.  Backing out now won’t reflect well on him, but neither will letting it play out right.  You’re looking for something you can use to damn Onslaught, yeah?  Too bad he’s got more dirt on you than the reverse then, eh?  And folks like him more too.  Man, what a tough position to be in. I don’t envy ya.”  He laughed, working at his warped jaw, hoping to force it back into place.  At least the tear had stopped leaking.

The mech tensed, preparing for another blow, but it never came.

“Lockdown, back down.”  The voice came, not from within the room proper, but the audio transmitters on the second mech, quiet until now.  Vortex had no difficulty recognizing to whom it belonged.

“Ey, speak of the Necrobot!  Hiya Mr. Senator!”

The interrogator, Lockdown, stepped aside, allowing his boxy blue companion to make his way in.  Soulless optics behind a blank red visor scrutinized Vortex’s battered frame; was this mech even alive?

“Aren’t you a chatty one?” the senator sneered from his expressionless host.  “And strangely insightful, for an insect.”

“A high compliment, coming from you, sir,” he smirked right back.  “Though I can’t say I expected you to join us.  What was it that convinced you to speak up?  My charming personality?  My on-the-nose observations?  Your interrogator’s hilarious inability to do his job?”

Lockdown growled and flinched, as though fighting the urge to lunge forward and pound Vortex’s face further in. 

“A little of everything,” Ratbat answered.  The blue mech moved forward, until he was between Vortex and Lockdown, who turned aside with a surly glare.  “They do say to know your enemy, after all.  And I would so love to get to know  _ you _ a little better.”

“Sorry, I can’t tell.  Are you hitting on me?”  He certainly hadn’t imagined his night ending like  _ this _ .  Truth be told, the idea of sleeping with the senator left his tanks churning, but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept with someone he found repugnant for the sake of furthering his own prospects.

“Ah,” Ratbat sniffed, “you are a Delta after all.”

“No sense in pretending mechs of your caliber don’t get urges.”

“Urges, yes.  But those of us at the top are there because we don’t act on them.  Interface gives another mech power over you.  No senator worth his seat would dare put himself in such a vulnerable position.”

Vortex snorted.  “No wonder y’all are such hard-afts.”  It would be a lie to say he wasn’t relieved, but it did make his job that much harder.  “Alrighty then, boss.  I’m all tied up and at your mercy.  Whatcha gonna do with me now?”

“That all depends on you.”

“Oh?”  He sat up straighter, wincing as one of the bolts on his rotor array snapped, sending a hot lash of fire up his spinal strut.  It was a sensation that even he couldn’t enjoy.  “Ugh.”

From the shadows, Lockdown let out a snicker.  “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, thank you!” he chirped back, forcing a quick recovery.  “You made me feel  _ quite _ welcome!  Ten of ten interrogation; would love to be tortured again!”

Growly McLockdown (surprise, surprise) growled under his breath, but before he could protest, he found himself interrupted by the sound of a very haughty little chortle. 

“Aww, Senator Ratbat liked my joke!”

“Sir,” Lockdown warned, turning on his boxy companion.  “Don’t entertain this lunacy.  This mech is dangerous.  The best course of action would be to put ‘im down.”

“Thank you, Lockdown,” Ratbat replied, an annoyed edge to his voice.  “You are dismissed.”

“Sir, you can’t mean to –”

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

Aww, people fighting over him always gave him warm, fuzzy feelings.  He watched with a wide grin as Lockdown stiffly strutted out of the room.  What a shame.  The guy had been a nice source of entertainment.  The senator was too important to play in such a haphazard way.  And his drone didn’t seem entirely prone to physical violence.  Had Ratbat done that on purpose?

“Now,” said the senator, moving his drone closer, “what – ‘dirt,’ did you say?  Yes, that was it.  What ‘dirt’ is it that Onslaught supposedly has on me?”

Vortex leaned back into the chair, easing the pressure on his stupid, flimsy rotor hub.  “Hmm, nothing that isn’t public record, as far as I know.  But I can do a quick scan of the datanet and find more than enough reasons for the public to hate you.  Put ‘em in the hand of a charismatic guy like Ons, and you’ll be shipped off to the smelter faster than a Racer on a booster binge.”

Ratbat considered this.  “Hmm,” he sighed, after a moment.  “And what, in your opinion, is the best way for us to stop him?”

Vortex cocked his head, heedless of the creak in his neck joints; his head would probably be stuck like this for a while.  “Us?”

“Yes, Vortex.  Us.  I’ve been quite impressed by the way you’ve handled yourself throughout this interrogation.  I would love for you to join the ranks of my intelligence agents.  I can pay you ten times whatever Onslaught’s paying you.”

“Onslaught’s not paying me,” Vortex noted, though it came out far more distracted than he’d meant it to.  Never, at any point in his life, had he imagined he;d be working for the most powerful mech in all of Kaon.  Did he even want to?

“No?” Ratbat said, mock surprise in his voice.  “Then how are you compensated?  Surely there must be  _ some _ reason you work for him?”

Vortex shrugged; his frame remained mercifully intact this time.  “It’s interesting, I guess.  To imagine what it is he’s scheming, try to anticipate him, figure out just how far ahead he’s planned, see how he responds to changes in said plan.  It’s been quite fun so far!”  He spoke with sincerity, but he felt there was more to it than that.  There was something, some foreign feeling that Onslaught made him feel, when he praised a job well done, when he relinquished some guarded bit of intel, when he trusted Vortex to anticipate his needs.  Vortex couldn’t quite put his finger on the name of such an emotion, but he quite enjoyed it.

“Oh Vortex,” Ratbat cooed, “you’ve never experienced  _ real _ fun, have you?”

“What do ya mean by that?” he asked, forcing his head to tilt the other way.  His neck let out a satisfying pop at the motion.  “I’m not exactly a ritzy sort of guy.”

“Maybe not, no,” Ratbat agreed, “but I assume that, given your caste, you’ve spent your whole life under ground, or else stuck on a battlefield.  Wouldn’t you like to get out?  Maybe give those cute little rotors of yours a spin?  You could see the Valvoluxian crystal farms, the Manganese Mountains, soar through the Sonic Canyons, the Rust Sea, the Acid Wastes.  You could pay a visit to the awe-inspiring Altihex Station, hop a flight to the space port at Luna I.  See the stars.  So many places to go, and things to do, far beyond the filthy walls of Lower Kaon.  Wouldn’t you agree?”

He did have a point.  At his core, Vortex was a flight frame, but he could count the number of times he’d flown in his three vorns of living on one hand.  His rotors tingled, just imagining the prospect of soaring through the Cybertronian skies (though the fuel loss could also have been to blame for the sensation as well).  Even Onslaught couldn’t give him that kind of freedom.

_ Hmm . . . _

“I’m listening,” he said, slowly.

“Let’s say, fifty thousand a week, with room for promotion.  An Exempt comm that will open any door on Cybertron owned by a lower mech.  Access to all Ratbat-affiliated facilities.  Diplomatic immunity.”

“And in exchange . . . ?”

“I imagine it won’t be much different than working for Onslaught.  Gathering intelligence on the state of the surface and the Underground, perform the occasional interrogation, report back to me.  What do you think?”

It all sounded spectacular.  An Untouchable becoming Caste-Exempt?  That wasn’t the sort of thing that happened!  Senator Ratbat was giving Vortex the opportunity to rise straight to the top, was offering him the world, everything he could have ever wanted. 

And yet . . .

“Sounds good to me,” Vortex chirped.  “I’ll be your little intel slave.  No problem!”

“Excellent,” Ratbat replied with his poisonous voice.  “Soundwave, release the prisoner.”

Ratbat’s strange, boxy drone stepped around Vortex’s chair, and deactivated the stasis cuffs.  Immediately, a rush of pain and clarity washed over Vortex’s processor; he was helpless to hold back the groan.  It hurt so bad, it hurt so good, it just plain  _ hurt _ .  Stupid interrogator was maybe a little more effective than he’d thought.

Soundwave didn’t release Vortex immediately from his chair.  Those poor, aching rotors of his had gotten quite twisted up in the scuffle; freeing them was going to be a pain.

_ Come on . . . _

“He really did quite a number on you, didn’t he?” Ratbat cooed.  “Soundwave, please cut away the bars.  I’m going to have to buy a new chair.” 

A hot buzz came into bloom at Vortex’s back, sawing through the top half of the chair with a quick precision.  This drone was more graceful than it looked.  A ginger hand came next to carefully detangle the top of the chair from Vortex’s rotors.  Every shift sent a jolt of agony into the pit of Vortex’s tanks.  If this kept up, he was either going to purge or overload.  Maybe both.  He groaned again once freed, and gave his rotors an experimental twitch.  Two were unresponsive, but that didn’t matter.  He’d just have Hook fix him up later.  In the meantime . . .

He whirled around with practiced motions, and slipped his fingers, transformed into wire-thin talons, between the gaps in Soundwave’s wrist plating.  It took him half a second to jack in to the drone, and another to shut Ratbat out. 

“Sorry buddy,” he said.  “I’ve reconsidered the offer.  All that luxury sounds boring.”  He laughed. 

And then, he screamed.

He hadn’t expected the drone to fight back, but there it was, using their hardline connection to counter-hack Vortex, ripping through his firewalls like he was a two-bit pleasurebot, forcing its way straight into his mind.  He struggled, tried to pull away, to disconnect, but Soundwave had disabled his mobility.  He was trapped in this things clutches, his mind an open book for the drone (no, whatever the thing was, it was no drone) to peruse at its leisure.

A barrage of information blasted him – three vorns worth of memory files called to the forefront of his mind, passing by him in short, sharp flashes for the hacker to take in.  The first memory that they settled into, indulged in, was that of a tower, dark and lonely.  Vortex knew that tower well, and he hated it. Day after day, year after year, he’d sit in that tower, ingesting the datapads the officers had left him with; it was the only thing he had to do.  He lived for the occasional visit to the VR machine, lived for the rare moment where he could pretend he was flying, pretend he was free.  But then, it was back to his tower, his prison, his sensory-deprived Hell.  He didn’t protest it; that was just his lot in life.

They came next, upon his first mission.  Flying through the orange skies of Archa Seven, happy, free.  Never before had he felt the air flowing over his rotors, the wind rushing past his cockpit, the weightlessness, the vast nothing below him; it was intoxicating.  Had he his way, he never would’ve come down.  But orders were orders, and there were some bugs in need of squashing.  His rotors spun faster, and his spark field burst outward, exerting its pressure on the surrounding air, making it heavy, pushing it down towards the ground, and likewise drawing warm air from below up towards him, living up to his namesake, forming a vortex beneath him – the axis of these increasingly cycling winds, kept in check by his force of will alone.  Everyone lived and died by his command now.  He was power, glorious, beautiful power, and he wasn’t keen to give it up.

The winds grew stronger and stronger below him, cycling round, pulling air into their mighty vacuum from farther and farther away, held fast by Vortex’s will alone – bursting at the seams, and eager to break free, to wreak havoc.  He held onto that power until his frame threatened to tear itself apart, until his spark felt like it was certain to burst.  And then, once he could hold on no longer, he let go, released his hold on the impossible power he’d amassed, and sent it flying out on its way.  Vortex himself spun out of control, thrust into the empty air at his back – the catalyst to set his cyclone into motion.  Two miles of storm, with windspeeds of more than three hundred miles per hour, tore a path over the open plain, ripping up boulders, foliage, alien ships, structures, and even the spiders themselves, leaving a trail of devastation in its wake.  All of their enemies were wiped out in the shuttering of an optic.

It was over.  And that meant . . . No!

He didn’t want to go back; he couldn’t go back!  He’d tasted freedom, he’d tasted power, he’d tasted murder!  How could he go back to that empty tower where nothing ever happened?  How could he live the rest of his days in confinement?  He was better than that!  He deserved better than that!

Again, his blades spun faster and faster, and his spark field reached out, ready to charge up tornado number two – this time, directed at his allies.  He ignored orders to come down, to get back in formation, to do as he was told.  Once that failed, the officers escalated to brute force.  Shots fired his way again and again, but the extreme windspeeds warped their paths; not a single blast hit home.  The second cyclone was released with nearly the same power as the first.  And after that one, he  sent a third, a fourth, and a fifth, until his spark was ragged, until his optical sensors blacked out, until at last, he was shot from the sky, hitting the ground hard, and blacking out.

He woke up, alone, and back home in that dark tower, his head foggy, his hands and rotors bound – punishment for disobeyed orders.  For weeks he sat alone in that dark room with nothing but his datapads, which he’d long since exhausted, to keep him company.  Eventually, he started to pick up snippets of conversation from the hallways, at the changing of the guards, no doubt intentional on their part.  There was talk of execution from the officers, and later on, when that was deemed too wasteful of his rare gift, of a complete reformatting.  It wasn’t fair!  What could he have possibly have done to warrant such a deprived life – to warrant being erased?  He’d never had the chance to do anything that should have resulted in such punishment, and yet here he was.  A nobody.  A nothing.

He needed to escape. 

He would not be erased.  He would not let them take what he deserved.  He was stronger, smarter,  _ better  _ than every one of the mechs that kept him imprisoned, and he was going to prove it.  After all, now that he knew what freedom felt like, he had to cling to it with every fiber of his being.  It was his fuel, his fire, his passion and soul.  It was what possessed him to mangle his own hands in order to slip free of those damned cuffs, possessed him to hack every one of his datapads, downloading five hundred tablets worth of information directly to his neural net, until his processor threatened to malfunction.  It took him the better part of three days to absorb it all, down to the finest detail, and in the process, learning a temporary mastery of electronic engineering, architecture, military strategy, and self-defense, among other things.  He could purge the info later, once he no longer needed it. 

When the guards at last came for him, he was ready.  He murdered his captors with ease, and then, crippled and half bound and in locked full fight-or-flight mode, he ran.  As a flight frame, he would be expected to try and free his rotors and escape by air.  And that was why he went down, into the escape tunnels, hacking any door, barrier, or guard that stood in his path.

The central military base in Helex opened up into the deepest crevices of the Sonic Canyons.  He followed their pathways, staving off the discomfort the tight walls and low altitude poured into him.  Instinct told him to fly, that the safest place for him was in the air, where his pursuers couldn’t reach him, and it would have won out over the wisdom of his mind, had it not been for the cuffs on his rotors – an unlikely blessing. 

He ran for days, ignoring his fear, his hunger, the pain that wracked his frame, the ever-encroaching exhaustion that threatened to consume him.  This was freedom, and it hurt like hell, but still he wanted it, longed for it, would fight and die to keep it, no matter the cost.  He embraced the pain, loved the sensory-overload it brought to his long-deprived frame, and instead of backing off, he pushed himself even harder.  He kept right on going until he could go no more, collapsing in a dirty alley somewhere in the lowest levels of what he later found out to be Kaon.

And it was there, as strange mechs passed him by without a second glance, as acid rain dripped from the black ‘sky’ created by the world above, as his tanks gasped for fuel and his legs trembled in paralyzing agony and he thought for sure he would die, that the reality of his situation finally hit him.  He let out a laugh, and another, and another, each escalating in volume and intensity until he was full-on cackling like a mech demented, until the passersby began to give him a wide berth, until the world around him faded away until he and his unquenchable jubilation were its only occupants.  This was it, what he had been searching for!  This was freedom!

“Well, well, isn’t that interesting?”  Ratbat’s voice hit him distantly, from another time, another place, another present, where he was trapped in one more dark, cold dungeon, slumped forward, his entire weight resting on the boxy frame of Ratbat’s stupid pet, unable to move or speak, barely able to even think.  What was happening to him?

“A Helexian superweapon, right here on my doorstep?  What  _ are _ the odds?”

_ No . . . _

“Soundwave, take him away.  I think I’ve just gotten myself the edge we needed.”

All it took was a thought on the part of Soundwave to steal consciousness from Vortex, like he had stolen his willpower, like he had stolen his hard-earned freedom.  After three vorns of running away from enslavement, Vortex was right back where he started.  Frag it all.

In the end, he was relieved of his hands, his rotors, his vocaliser, and most damningly, his ability to move, before being dumped in a pitch-black cell somewhere below ground. 

_ This is fine, _ he thought,  _ I’m fine.  This is just like my tower.  I’ve got a little less freedom, but that’s fine.  I’ll be fine. _ _ I’ll be fine.  _

He wasn’t fine, but if he repeated the thought enough, then surely he would be.  The mind, after all, was a powerful thing.  It could turn pain to pleasure, it could turn despair to joy, it could take a mech, half-dead and mad beyond repair, with no identity, no possessions, and no prospects, and transform him into one of the most powerful figures in all of Kaon.  He’d performed more than a few impossible feats in his lifetime; what was one more?

He just wished it wasn’t so dark . . .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever just . . . reach a character's tech specs and go: "Uh, okay, that's absurd. Let's incorporate that!" 
> 
> "Whirls rotor blades to create 200-300 mph wind funnels," indeed u.u


	20. The Best Night Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Onslaught has some last-minute preparations to make, but after all of his hard work, this is sure to be the best night ever.

Vortex never came back.  That was fine by Onslaught; he’d expected as much, after all.  Admittedly, a small part of him had wondered if the mech could indeed break out of Senator Ratbat’s secret interrogation block, but it would have been quite the feat for any mech, and even his newest annoyance had his limits.  On the bright side, he’d gotten everything he’d needed from Vortex, and managed to get rid of him before he could get into too much trouble.  It was win-win – just the kind of situation Onslaught liked.

His preparations were in place.  He had the menu, he had the venue, he had a rather impressive guest list, speakers, events, and entertainment, decorations and music – on the surface, the gala was shaping up to be a success, and he was still a month out.  As for the less legitimate side of the affair – well, it wasn’t doing half bad either.  His leaders of the Underground – Catalyst, Blackjack, and Swindle – were confirmed guests.  That was good.  Senator Ratbat was a confirmed guest.  That was better.  What would the gala be without its shining star?  And of course, Vortex  _ wouldn’t _ be there.  He didn’t need any loose cannons running around during such a sensitive operation.  Now if Blast Off showed up and was impressed enough to be wooed back to Onslaught’s side (and maybe Brawl.  Having him as an enemy had already proven a problem), then the evening would be perfect.

He had but a few last-minute preparations to get out of the way.  Then it was time to see everything play out.  He couldn’t wait.  Once this nightmare was over, the  _ real _ fun would begin.

~~~

One month passed by at light speed, as Onslaught met with vendors, security, caterers, and of course, the head of the benefitting charity, paving the way for one perfect night.  He could not afford for anything to go wrong, and as he approached the night in question, nothing did.  On the morning  _ of _ , however, bad luck finally caught up to him.

It came in the form of Brawl, because of course it did. 

_ [Sir!]  _ Brawl said over his comm in a stage whisper that would have fooled no one.

“Please tell me you are calling me from somewhere discreet.”

_ [Discreet?] _  Did Brawl not know the meaning of the word?  Onslaught wasn’t surprised.

“Switch to sub-voc.”

Brawl paused, and a soft creaking sound hit the comm; as though someone was moving his head back and forth, most likely because said someone had forgotten that he could not be seen over his comm.   _ [Sorry sir, but that’ll make the boss’s cyber-security guy suspicious.  Gotta use – uh –  _ non _ -sub-voc.] _

Primus below, Brawl had done something at least somewhat right for once!  Good on him.  “Why are you calling me?”

_ [It’s – um – it’s about Vortex, sir.] _  Of  _ course _ it was.  Even behind bars, that fragger was rust in Onslaught’s joints.

“What about him?”

_ [Did you know he was at Archa Seven?] _ Brawl asked, hesitation in his voice.

“I did.”  Onslaught was growing impatient.  “Brawl, what is this about?  You do realize that if you’re caught divulging classified information, it will not end well for  _ either _ of us?”

Brawl grumbled something unintelligible that was most likely an excuse, before saying,  _ [I just thought this was important, since he like – um, works for you, I guess.] _

Onslaught tapped an impatient finger against his desk.  “Brawl,” he said, warning in his voice,  “ss this, or is this not something that relates to me, my business, or my gala?”

_ [Er, maybe?]  _ Brawl replied, earning an irate sigh from Onslaught.

“Spit it out, then.”

_ [Uh – so, my boss also knows that he was there – on Archa Seven, that is, and he knows what he did – the wind thingy, yeah?  Anyway, my boss is gonna sell ‘im back to Helex in exchange for – um, gratitude, I think?  He’s gonna be known as the hero that captured the war criminal, or something.] _

That . . . that was actually not good at all.  Onslaught’s plan hinged on Ratbat’s reputation being shot.  One captured war criminal wasn’t going to make up for a lifetime of disastrous decisions, but the senator’s PR team were nothing if not competent.  They would no doubt spin the accomplishment in the senator’s favor, and distract the populace just long enough to give Ratbat a little more time to cover his aft, while simultaneously, completely fragging over Onslaught’s bid for riches.  Fragging Copter didn’t even have to be present to mess things up.

“How the frag did Vortex manage to let  _ that _ little detail slip?  Our dear friend above shouldn’t have even  _ known _ about Archa Seven.”

_ [I guess he tried to hack the cyber-security guy for some reason.] _

“And you waited to tell me this now, because?”

_ [I only just found out myself.]   _ What convenient timing that was.  A bit too convenient, perhaps.

“Ah,” said Onslaught.  “And how exactly did  _ you _ find out?”

_ [I got set to guard the prison ship.  It’s leaving tonight for Helex.  Just got the briefing.] _

Tonight.  Of course it was.  “Any chance you can get him out?”

_ [Nah,]  _ said Brawl, a little too casually.   _ [They trussed ‘im up real good.  He ain’t goin’ nowhere no time soon.  I mean – on his own, y’know?  And there are a buncha other guards.  I don’t think I can get ‘im out by myself, y’know?  Also, I work for Ratbat, and I don’t think he’d be happy if I broke Vortex out ‘cause you asked me to.  I just thought that maybe – you’d know what to do?] _

That was Brawl – good at following orders, bad at thinking.  How did he think that Ratbat would be mad if Brawl broke Vortex free, but that he wouldn’t be angry over the tip off?  His logic was senseless as always.  Still, it was a small miracle that he’d thought to inform Onslaught of this little hiccup at all.  It boded well for his future plans, at least, though Brawl would make a terrible spy in the long run.  “I’ll think it over, and get back to you” he said, after a long pause.  “Thank you for telling me.”

_ [Yes sir!] _

“Onslaught out.”  He hung up with a sigh.  Of course Ratbat would schedule this for tonight. Chances were, he had counted on Brawl informing Onslaught with the goal of providing a last-minute distraction, if not ordered it outright.  Still, his actions were a little odd.  If this was about preemptively saving his reputation, it would have been far more logical to bump up the date of his prisoner trade; he’d had a month after all.  It would have given his own team time to act before Onslaught had a chance to make his move.  Putting it off until tonight meant that something else was going down.  Was he expecting Onslaught to save his employee?  Getting caught freeing a prisoner, let alone one who was a war criminal, would not reflect well on him one bit, and should he send Brawl in to do the deed, the authorities would no doubt trace it back to him.

Regardless of his motive, Ratbat had put Onslaught into a tight situation.  Wait, and lose all leverage over Ratbat, act and get arrested.  There had to be a third option somewhere in there.  If only there was some way for Vortex to escape on his own.  Or even better, to somehow demolish the gravity of Ratbat’s deed.  Maybe it could be done, with the right comm call . . .

And that was when his second problem burst into the room.

“Strange,” said Onslaught.  “I could have sworn I had security guards.”

Swindle looked none-too amused as he stood in the doorway, hands on his hips and a glare in sole good optic.  His self-repairs had fixed most of the damage Vortex hadn’t, but his poor, left optic was proving slow to recover.  It remained unfocused, pupil-less, and dim – jarring next to the brilliant purple of his right one.  “I told them I was working with you and Vortex and they let me through.”

“Really?”  Onslaught raised an optic ridge, not believing the story for a second.  His guards were far too competent for that.  Swindle, however, stuck to his story.

“I can be very convincing when it suits me.”

Onslaught didn’t doubt  _ that _ , at least.  He decided to let the issue drop.  For now.  “What do you want?  We’ve never spoken before; I don’t see why you’ve decided to change that now, of all times.”

“If you can’t, then maybe you’re not as smart as your reputation would have me believe.”

Onslaught narrowed his optics, and gestured towards the seat across from him.  “It is Swindle, right?”  He knew it was, but manners were important.

“It is,” Swindle replied, taking the seat without once breaking eye contact.  “Swindle, whose life was pretty much ruined the moment you walked into it, however tangentially.”

“I apologize for any ill that has befallen you due to my actions.”  It wasn’t a sincere statement, but it was a believable one.  “Though I must admit, I’m surprised you feel that way.  I was under the impression that my impact on your life opened a path for you to become one of the wealthiest mechs in the Underground.”

“Oh sure,” Swindle agreed.  “And also the victim of assassination attempts and torture.  Did you know I haven’t been home in over a month?  Just been crashing on Vortex’s couch, trying to scrounge something from nothing, in an unknown area with far more strict regulations than I’m accustomed to.”

“And how’s that been going for you?”

Swindle stuttered, momentarily taken aback.  “Ah, well, it’s going well-enough, but that’s really not the point.”

Onslaught sighed, before reaching into his desk to grab a chalice of mid-grade and a pair of cubes.  He didn’t miss the way Swindle stiffened the full duration that his hands were out of sight.  The poor guy really was on edge, wasn’t he?  “Here, a peace offering.”  Onslaught poured the cubes, and pushed one towards his guest.

Swindle glared, but took the cube anyway, giving it a heavy sniff before downing the thing.  “What is it you’re planning?”

“I beg your pardon?” Onslaught replied, far more casually than he felt.  He  _ felt _ offended, and more than a little nervous.

“Tonight,” Swindle elaborated.  “Anyone can see that you’ve got something less than on-the-level planned.  You’ve invited me, and I have to know, is my life or livelihood going to be jeopardized by my attendance, because I’m done with being screwed over by you. 

Onslaught frowned, then retracted his mask to take a drink of his own cube.  It gave him a delightful moment to stall.  “Swindle, if I was going to cause you harm, do you really think I’d tell you?”

“Believe it or not, I’m pretty good at reading people,” Swindle noted with a hint of pride.  “Comes with the territory.”

“I don’t doubt.”  He sighed heavily.  What was with this little guy?  “I do have to wonder why you waited until today to come to me with your concerns, however.”

“That part was unintended.”  Like hell.  “I’ve had my reservations since the moment Vortex invited me.”

“And yet you took the ticket.”

“I did,” Swindle agreed.  “He convinced me that it made good financial sense to spend a night with the elite.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“When put like that, yes.  But I can’t help but wonder at your motivation for inviting Underworld mechs to a surface world party.”  His tone implied he wasn’t finished talking, but he paused to gulp down the few remaining droplets of his energon.  Onslaught patiently waited for him to continue. 

At last, Swindle set down his empty cube, and re-established eye contact with Onslaught.  This time, his gaze was intense, and surprisingly threatening for a Jeep.  His left optic flickered as it tried to join in on the warning.  “I also couldn’t help but notice that Vortex hasn’t turned up since the day after my . . . incident.  At first, I thought he was just being Vortex, but the longer he spent away, the more I began to worry.  He’d nested in that place; usually that implies an intent to come back.  And even  _ I _ had noticed a positive change in his behavior after he started working for you.  And you expect me to believe he just up and vanished?”

Primus, why did everyone have to be so interested in Vortex today?  Onslaught took a moment to compose himself, refilling Swindle’s cube to buy some time.  “Swindle, I can honestly say that I am not happy about the situation he’s landed himself in.”

“I’m sure,” Swindle snorted, still skeptical.  “But surely you can see where my concerns are coming from?  I’ve seen the aftermath of Blast Off and Brawl, two more mechs who were in on your schemes.  And now Vortex?  It seems clear to me that you use the mechs around you as pawns in whatever game you’re playing, and I can’t help but wonder about  _ my _ role in all of this?  Are you gonna sacrifice me to get a shot at the king?”

Swindle hadn’t been lying when he’d said he was good at reading people.  What a shame that a mind so sharp had been stuffed into a Jeep.  What a shame that Jeeps had been discontinued when they had.  What a shame such a talented mech had been condemned to a life of inexistence.  He would have made a fine strategist, and an even better businessmech.

“You’re not obligated to come,” Onslaught said, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

Swindle shrugged, before taking another drink.  Onslaught got the impression he’d been energon deprived for a long time, at least at some point in his past.  He didn’t drink with the fervor of the starving, but he was very quick to drink any fuel laid in front of him, right down to the last drop; it seemed second-nature.  “It  _ would _ be a good networking opportunity.  I’m starting a new life up here, and want to make sure I get off on the right foot.  Getting killed or arrested would put a bit of a damper on my plans.”

“Indeed,” Onslaught agreed.  There was no getting out of this one.  Though he might be able to at least redeem  _ something _ from the disaster.  “But there’s not much to do for it.  I can’t tell you my plan without jeopardizing the whole operation, and any assurances I provide you with are bound to be blown off without proof.  I suppose you just have to ask yourself – is the risk worth the gain?”

Swindle glared down at the desk, his left optic flickering once more.  “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”  He rose from his seat and backed to the door, suspicious optics still on Onslaught. 

“I’ll see you tonight?” Onslaught asked, putting on a charming smile.  Swindle, however, did not reply.  Instead, he backed over the threshold, into the hall, and out of sight.  Frag it all.  Onslaught chugged down the rest of his energon in frustration.  Why did all of these problems have to come up at the last minute?  Swindle may not have been instrumental to the plan, but Onslaught still would have rather had him around for insurance.  He only hoped that no one else backed out between now and showtime.

~~~

Thankfully, the rest of the day left him with no more new fires to put out.  He made some last-minute calls, filled up his subspace with supplies, polished himself to perfection, excused his staff for the night, and began to close up shop.  He had about a cycle left until he needed to be at the party to prep for the opening ceremonies.  It would have been a ten-minute drive, but his alt mode wasn’t street legal, so he had a train to catch instead.  Still, he wasn’t worried.  He’d given himself plenty of time; even a minor disaster wouldn’t slow him down now.

That was when Blast Off appeared in the doorway.

“Onslaught,” he said, causing an alarmed jolt in Onslaught’s fuel pump.  He covered it up easily enough.

“Blast Off,” Onslaught turned away from his desk to face his old partner.  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“You invited me,” Blast Off noted.

“Yes, but the gala is still two hours off.  And,” he paused averting his optics, if only for a moment, “I didn’t think you’d want to set foot in this place again.  Not after the way I treated you.”  It was hard to admit that he’d messed up, but he really, truly had.  He’d known Blast Off was losing more motivation every minute he spent working in the Underground, and yet Onslaught had refused to hire someone to take his place, even when a mech had willingly offered to do so – at gunpoint even.  But stress and caution had blinded him, and in the end, he’d lost his partner and taken on the mech he’d denied anyway.  It was an unacceptable embarrassment; he hadn’t messed up like that in three vorns.

Blast Off shook his head.  “I still value our . . . relationship,” he said, after a moment.  “It was the stress of the Underground that got to me.  I know that there are bots trapped in that life with no hope for escape, and I pity them, I do, but . . . I just couldn’t do it.  I had the option to leave, so I left.”

“I understand,” Onslaught replied, his tone carefully neutral, careful to keep his own self-pity far away.  “You’re not obligated to sacrifice yourself for others.”  At Blast Off’s guarded expression, he added, with more sincerity, “I mean that.  You can’t take care of anyone else if you can’t first take care of yourself.  And while our cause may garner a sense of nobility, don’t think for a moment that  _ I _ don’t have selfish goals in mind.  It would be hypocritical to disallow you to put yourself first.  I bear no grudge for your departure.  It is myself whom I am angry with, for seeing your suffering and doing nothing to assuage it.”

Blast Off was silent for a long moment, his optics focused on the window at Onslaught’s back, and though there were a million things he wanted to say, Onslaught waited, patiently, not wanting to scare his old friend away.  Any hope for forgiveness had to come from Blast Off, on Blast Off’s terms.

At last, Blast Off spoke.  “You’ve done well in my absence,” he noted.  “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to pull this off on your own.  Might I ask how?”

It wasn’t what he’d been hoping to hear, but Onslaught forced a smile anyway.  To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure how Blast Off would respond to the answer.  “Funding this event was the hardest part.  I ran some small-scale fundraisers on my own, and took a hit to my personal profits.  The rest came from the Underground.”

Blast Off nodded.  “You’d mentioned you got someone to cover that half of the job.  Can I ask who?”

Onslaught was fully prepared for the inevitable anger his answer would stir.  He preemptively prepared a handful of excuses and explanations, depending on Blast Off’s response.  “Vortex,” he said at last, and waited for the fallout.

It never came.  “I admit I’m surprised,” said Blast Off, with no vocal clue to his deeper feelings on the matter, “but it’s a logical choice.  I’m hard-pressed to think of anyone who knows the Underground quite so well as Vortex, and he wanted to work for you anyway.”

Onslaught cocked his head.  He, the mech who prepared for every eventuality, had found himself caught unawares.  Blast Off was good at that, it seemed.  “Honestly, I was expecting you to be upset.”

“Why would I be upset?”

Why indeed?  Onslaught had been dealing with opposition and toxic people for far too long.  He’d forgotten how reasonable Blast Off was.  “Primus, I’ve missed you,” he sighed, genuine exhaustion and fondness in his voice.  “Tell me, how are  _ you _ doing?”  Knowing Blast Off, he was probably bored out of his mind up in Altihex, but it was polite to ask.

“I’m . . . alright,” he replied, slowly.  That was Alpha code for ‘I’m terrible.  Help me.’

“That’s good,” Onslaught said, playing along.  “And did you bring any friends with you?  Or did you come alone?”

“Aphelion is waiting for me outside.  I just thought I’d drop in to say ‘hi.’  I can’t imagine you’ll have much time for socializing once the party gets underway.  Speaking of, I should probably let you go.”  He backed out of the doorway, and Onslaught was quick to follow, reluctant to let this beacon of hope and comfort leave him.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Onslaught commented, cool as ever.  “It really is good to see you again.”

Blast Off paused, turning around to meet Onslaught’s eyes.  “The same for you.  I wish you luck tonight, sincerely.  I know you’ll need it.  Or maybe you won’t.  If anyone can pull off what you’re attempting, after all, it’s you.  I’m eager to see what you’ve got in store for us.”  He offered a small bow.  “Anyway, until next we meet.”  It was Onslaught’s signal to back off.  This time, he didn’t follow as Blast Off rounded the corner and left the office suite.

Blast Off’s words may have been encouraging, but they hit Onslaught right in the nerves all the same.  He was under a lot of pressure to not screw this up.  Sure, he’d been planning this event for months, right down to the last detail, and had been exceptionally careful to get every last detail right, but there was still far too great a chance of failure, and failure would have catastrophic consequences for him and his.

There was no helping it, however.  He’d done all the planning he could.  All that was left to do was see how it all played out. 

Onslaught locked up his office, stepped out of his suite, and into the hallway beyond.  His armor was polished to gleaming, and he’d attached every badge he’d earned from his six vorns military service, hoping that it would help him fit in better with the sure-to-be gussied up nobles.  His mask was retracted, and he’d adorned his face with ceremonial paints.  He was ready to go. 

Tonight was the night that all of his hard-laid plans would come to fruition – do or die.  He’d accomplished many impressive things in his life, but winning over Senator Ratbat was bound to be the hardest.  At least, that’s what he told himself.  Ratbat clearly had schemes of his own, and that was to say nothing of how any of his other enemies would respond.  Vortex was still in a very precarious situation, Brawl’s loyalties were not completely secured, Swindle’s presence at the gala had been reduced to ‘uncertain,’ and as for Blast Off, would he be impressed?  Would the events that transpired tonight send him running right back into Onslaught’s arms, the place where he belonged?  Would all of Onslaught’s planning be put to waste, or would he be gratified, persevere, and come out on top?

There was only one way to find out.

 


	21. Friends in High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swindle begins his newest business venture, at great personal risk.

With every hour that passed, Swindle grew more and more nervous.  In the beginning, he’d been excited for tonight’s gala, but Onslaught’s shady motives combined with Ratbat’s outright torture had joined forces to make one anxious little con-artist.  Didn’t it just figure that Ratbat would have to rough him up so close to his first legitimately prestigious event?  The mechs of high society cared deeply for appearances.  No doubt they would all be sporting fresh and flashy paintjobs, adorning themselves with the latest crests and crowns and bracers and bangles; some would probably even be modeling textiles from off-world.  And here Swindle was, with one shattered optic that could barely stay lit.

His broken reflection stared back at him from the window of the District Two shop in front of him.  There was nothing to be done for the optic right now, not so long as he remained on the surface without a valid comm.  Upper Kaon doctors were stingy like that.  In the meantime, he’d just have to keep working around it.  He’d done alright so far.  In just a month of being on the surface, he’d managed to double the assets associated with his comm, fake though it was. 

It had started with the maintenance bot at Vortex’s apartment.  He’d come in, quite unexpectedly, looking every bit as surprised to see Swindle lying on the sofa as Swindle was to see him.  The last thing Swindle wanted to do was answer questions regarding who he was and what he was doing there, so he turned on that famous Swindle charm, and engaged the bot in some small talk.

As it turned out, Mr. Maintenance was only a part-time maintenance bot.  He ran a little distillery in District Five, a district that had a reputation for being a bit of a hick-town, even for a surface district.  Business was naturally poor, between the location and resources.  The product, however, which the bot had allowed Swindle to sample, was surprisingly delicious.  Swindle had inadvertently stumbled upon a gold mine just waiting to be excavated. 

He wrote up a contract with Mr. Maintenance/Distillery (a contract which, naturally, favored himself), in which he promised to handle the company’s marketing needs.  Within a week, the business had more than quadrupled its profits, and the grateful owner had spread the word of Swindle’s business prowess to all of his friends.  Soon, Swindle was running an unofficial marketing/financial advisory firm right out of Vortex’s apartment.  Unfortunately, as an unofficial business, he had to be extra careful regarding his activities, lest he find himself on the wrong side of Ratbat’s temper . . . again.

What he needed was a sponsor – some wealthy mech willing to invest the capital he needed to get past all of Upper Kaon’s red tape, and of course, wealthy clients to keep business booming and profits soaring.  And what better place to find the sort of mechs he needed, than Onslaught’s gala?

He let out a bitter sigh, then turned from the shop window.  It would be the perfect location – right at the center of a busy street in Kaon’s busiest district.  There was plenty of foot traffic to draw in potential clients, and better, a street-facing display, which would be perfect, should he wish to continue with his retail business ventures.  Sure, it was currently occupied, but if all went well tonight, that would be no issue. 

_ If _ all went well.

He transformed to alt mode, and drove off, trying his best to ignore the suspicious stares of the bots he passed.  A Delta on the surface was one thing.  A Delta with a discontinued alt mode was another.  Freely roaming the streets was a risk, but a necessary one.  Should the enforcers stop him, he only hoped that his charm and gala ticket would be enough to keep him from harm.

Fortunately for Swindle, he ran into no trouble as he made his way to District One: the Alpha district.  Onslaught had rented out Club Crystahl, a high-class private resort that somehow managed to create the impression of peaceful country living in the middle of downtown Kaon.  The joint was easily one of the most swanky in town; as he approached, it was hard shake the feeling that he didn’t belong.  He’d tried to pretty himself up best he could – gave himself a polish and a paint, but the fact remained that he was, and always would be, an Untouchable.  No amount of primping could change that.

His whole frame shook as he approached the line of fine mecha waiting to have their tickets taken.  He was almost certainly receiving judgmental looks from the other bots in line – ‘Who is this dirty little urchin?’  ‘What is he doing, inserting himself into high society like this?’  ‘Security will take care of him.’  However, poor Swindle would be left in the dark as to what people were actually thinking; he was too afraid to meet anyone’s optics.

He was relieved to find the wait-time mercifully short.  Within a few short minutes, he’d reached the front of the line, and the seven ticket-takers – Heavyweight Grounders, the lot of them, all wearing the badge of the agency that had lent them out, all painted a matching red and gold, and all polished to perfection.  They could only be told apart by their helms.

“Ticket please,” said the mech at the head of Swindle’s lane, a suspicious look in his optic.  Swindle was pretty certain that the mech gave his ticket an undue amount of scrutiny, but ultimately, he could find nothing to complain about.  “I bid thee welcome, Master – err – Swindle.  Please step through the security gate ahead.  You will need to surrender any weapons on your person at the door,” he gave Swindle a pointed look at that.  “You may pick them up at the front desk at the end of the night.  Do enjoy your evening, sir.”

Swindle had no problems with the security checkpoint, though he noted with smug satisfaction that two of the nobles in the other lanes were stopped, one for a sub-spaced energon dagger, and the other for concealed Syk.   _ Morons. _  Still, their loss was Swindle’s gain; he felt significantly more level-headed watching the failings of the mechs who were  _ supposed _ to be here.  It was thus, with a slightly more confident demeanor that he approached the atrium.

[Master Swindle of Kaon,] announced an automated voice from high above as he entered the room.  The announcement was mere formality; not one bot stopped what they were doing to acknowledge his arrival.  He didn’t blame them.  There was so much going on, who had time to waste on an insignificant nobody?

In the main hall itself were some sixty bots, primped and polished, just as predicted, milling about, socializing.  Many held chalices of energon grabbed from the bar at the far end of the room, separated from the festivities by atmospheric lighting and a divider, adorned in plush banners.  There were even more bots dancing it up in the ballroom from whence music played by live musicians wafted.  A silent auction was housed in the armory across the way.  The draw of the night, however, would be the three guest speakers: Night Blight of the Cybercrosis Foundation, the benefitting charity of the evening, Onslaught himself, and of course, guest of honor, Senator Ratbat.  A stage had been set up at the center of the atrium, but it was currently empty; the night was only just warming up, after all.

Swindle’s moment of clarity hadn’t been long-lived.  Never in his life had he seen so much money in one place.  With few exceptions, every bot in the room was an Alpha, if not caste-exempt.  Swindle had serviced many wealthy clients back in the Underground, but never so many as this.  His old clients had been a bit lacking in class, as well, despite their societal standing.  Nothing in his life could compare to standing here, now, surrounded by the privileged, in a spacious, sparkling crystal manor, decorated with lights and fixtures made of rare, Kaonian glass – which cast glimmering black shadows on every surface, refracting off of the Valvoluxian crystal of the building’s foundation and walls to fill the room with an otherworldly glow.  The glass ceiling above had been lit to resemble a fiery sunset, the kind any Kaonian was familiar with (at least those on the surface), a fountain ran the perimeter of the atrium, pouring Hydraxian oils from the point where the sloping windows of the ceiling met the wall  into the shimmering pools that spanned the floor, and upon every doorway hung a rich, textile tapestry – all in royal purples and brilliant golds – the colors of Kaon.  Onslaught had spared no expense in putting this thing on.  No wonder he’d run low on funds.  

Swindle couldn’t afford to waste time being dazzled by the sights, however.  He had work to do, nobles to introduce himself to, deals to arrange.  On wobbling legs, he set off, already running a dozen scenarios in his head.  The atrium seemed the best place to conduct business deals, so that’s where he started, scoping out those who looked gullible, or ambitious, or a little too loose with their money.  He managed to scrounge up some small investments from a Dragonoid named Skystalker, and a Submarine named Bail, but it was the group of Speedsters who proved most lucrative.

There were six of them standing in a cluster by the entrance to the bar, each sporting a flashy paintjob that easily outshone the rest of the room combined.  The flashiest, most decorated of the lot was a sleek blue bot, animatedly prattling on about something or another.  They were wealthy to be sure, and knowing Speedsters, they mostly likely hadn’t gained that wealth through careful financial investments.  They would be perfect to wring a couple shanix from.

“Excuse me, sirs and madams,” he said, coming in smiling, yet subservient.  “Might I borrow a moment of your time?”

The blue Speedster tossed him a suspicious glance.  “I don’t do autographs,” he said, earning him a confused stare from Swindle.  Evidently, these mechs were famous.  Who knew?

“Ah, no, I wasn’t wanting an autograph,” Swindle laughed.  “Rather, I was hoping to talk business.”

“Business?” another of the Speedsters snorted.  “We’re all signed, buddy.  Try someone a bit . . .  _ lower _ on the hierarchy.”

Swindle was beginning to find this lot irritating, but his gut still told him they were his best bet.  “I’m not here to sign you.  Anyone can see you’re doing quite well for yourselves, but – well – you can always stand to do a little better.”

“What do you mean?” the blue bot asked.  “I’m at the top of my game.  Number one crowned racer for seven years running.  I’m breaking records left and right.  How could I possibly be doing better than I am?”  He puffed out his chest proudly, with a smirk that seemed to think he’d won the encounter.  But Swindle was just getting warmed up.

“Ah, sorry,” he said, “I admit, I’m not a fan of racing myself.”

All six Speedsters gaped.  Was it really so strange to not care for racing?  It was a sport for the elite, or at the very least, the middle class.  There were no racetracks in the Underground, and even if there had been, few would have had the money to attend a meet.  It was all about survival down there; it was why gladiator fights were so popular.

The blue Speedster was the first to speak up.  “You mean you have no idea who I am?”

“’Fraid not,” Swindle admitted with a smile.  Evidently, it was the right thing to say.  The blue Speedster pushed away from the divider he’d been leaning on, and circled Swindle in wide-eyed wonder.

“How could you not know who I am?” he asked in awe.  “I’m Blurr!   _ The _ Blurr?  Y’know, Blurr of Velocitron – the blue lightning, the fastest bot on all of Cybertron?  You’ve gotta be lying!  I can’t believe that there’s anyone left who hasn’t heard of me.”

“Sorry,” Swindle shrugged.  His ignorance made Blurr all the more eager to open up, and the others followed suit. 

“But why did you approach us if you didn’t know who we were?  That doesn’t make any sense!  Everyone who talks to us Racers wants to share in a corner of our cube!  How are you any different?” Blurr said, his voice growing faster and faster with every word.  “You said you wanted to talk business, but our business is racing!  How could you not know who we are but want to talk business with us?  I don’t understand.”  Despite the accusative words, his tone was curious.

Swindle’s smile broadened.  “Excuse me for saying, but anyone can see that you’re wealthy; you’ve gone out of your way to show it off.  And me?  I’m looking to invest in a new business venture – an office park in District Two, most like – but to turn this dream into an overwhelmingly successful reality, I need wealthy investors, just like you.”

A teal Speedster cocked her head, frowning.  “Why would we want to . . . er, to pay you to buy an office park?”

Swindle sighed, good-naturedly, preparing an explanation meant to wow.  “Well, my friend, as an investor, when I profit, so too, do you.  I’m sure the lot of you all make a lot of money from racing, but is that really all you wanna do for the rest of your life?  Maybe you wanna keep busy in the off-season?  Or perhaps you’ll wanna retire at some point.  Whatever the case, it’s good to have something to fall back on.  Think of it,” he grinned, sidling up to Blurr.  “You could open a bar, a nightclub, the most happening spot in all of Kaon – you wouldn’t have to lift a finger to run it, but it would still, in part, be yours, money and glory and all.”

“I dunno if you should,” said a maroon Speedster, a confused frown on his lips.  In response, Blurr stood taller, more confident. 

“You never have been known for your good ideas, Fasttrack.  I personally think this sounds like a fantastic opportunity.  Just think, me – the owner of a club!”  Evidently Swindle had been on the right track with that club venture. 

“There could be a holocaster,” Swindle pressed, “that displays the races twenty-six/ten.  Free advertising!  Or, we could pay other bots to display their ads on our screens.  Plus, if you’re as famous as you say you are, having your name attached to the club will guarantee success!”

Blurr grinned, but he wasn’t alone.  The teal mech, and a darker blue mech, and a silver/orange mech were all grinning too. 

“I’d love to get in on this!” the teal one smiled!

“Sure thing,” Swindle replied.  “Just let me get your name and comm frequency, and we can draft up a contract.  Naturally, I’ll have to work around your current sponsors to make sure no pedes are stepped on, but further glory awaits you all!”

“Fantastic!” squealed the teal mech.  “I’m Moonracer!”

“Override.”

“Tracks.”

“Fasttrack.”

“Dragstrip.”

“Blurr.”

“Wonderful, wonderful!” Swindle cheered, taking down each bot’s information.  This was far better than he’d expected to get.  Six wealthy and trusting investors, and major celebrities no less!  He had no doubt he could write his way into supreme riches from these six alone.  That street level District Two office would be his in no time!

“Now, I do hope you enjoy the rest of the event.  I’ll be in touch –“

[Senator Ratbat of Kaon.]

Swindle froze at the sound of the automated announcement on high, for a moment forgetting himself, and allowing the fear he felt to show on his face.  Ratbat was here.  Of  _ course _ Ratbat was here; that fact had been made  _ very _ clear to him.  And yet, he’d let Onslaught talk him into coming, allowed himself to ignored the inevitable presence of his new number one nightmare – and all for a couple of shanix.  What was wrong with him?

“Are you alright – er, what was your name?”

“Swindle,” he said softly, trying to ease his churning tanks.  He forced a winning smile, and turned back to Blurr, picking up right where he left off.  “Now I know what you’re thinking,” he laughed, noticing the look of concern on Blurr’s face.  “’Trusting a businessmech named “Swindle” is a right fool thing to do.’  But don’t you fret.  It’s just a moniker I picked up back when I was getting my start, from my competitors who wanted to tarnish my name and keep me down.  And you know what I said?  I said, ‘Call me what you want.  I’ll be more successful than you, even with a shady name!’”  It wasn’t even a lie, though admittedly, there was a little truth in the name as well.  Not that these bots needed to know that.

“Oh, I see!” said Blurr.  “I get it!  Taking an insult and turning it into a badge of pride.  I’ve never been able to do that myself, but it’s quite the – hey, is that Senator Ratbat coming this way?”

Again, Swindle froze, though he did a better job of hiding his discomfort this time.

“Nah.  Why would he bother with us?” Override laughed, though she didn’t seem entirely convinced.

“He’s a lot shorter than I expected,” Dragstrip noted.

Frag it all, Swindle had his own guess as to why the esteemed senator would be coming over here, and it didn’t bode well for him.  “Perhaps he wants an autograph?” Swindle ventured, putting every ounce of willpower he had into sounding convincing.

“Wow, you think?” Moonracer replied, amazed.  Blurr hopped on the Ratbat train quicker, however.

“Well of course!  Why wouldn’t he want an autograph?  We  _ are  _ world-famous racers, after all.  And I think I wouldn’t mind suspending my no-autographs rule for a senator.  How exciting!”

“Well, my friends,” Swindle smiled, “I’ll just excuse myself.  Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”  He backed off, trying to melt into the crowd.  “I’ll be in touch within a few days.”

The moment he was out of their line of sight, he picked up the pace, dodging through bots twice his size, around decorations, and through rooms, all in an effort to throw Ratbat off his trail. 

_ You’re being ridiculous, _ he told himself.   _ Why would Ratbat come after you? _

Try as he might, however, he couldn’t force himself to believe the comforting lie.  The very thought of Ratbat left his frame shivering and his mind reeling.  He could still feel Lockdown’s cold claw on him, sliding down his cheek, burying itself in his optic.  He was back in that dark, hopeless cell – a helpless victim, a nobody, a nothing. 

“Aww, is it chilly in here?”

Swindle stopped shivering; fear had left him paralyzed.  Standing by his side on the far wall of the ballroom was Senator Ratbat, in all of his tiny, vain glory.  It wasn’t often that Swindle could look down on someone, but in a situation like this, he couldn’t savor it.

“S-sir,” he stuttered, standing up straighter.

“And they say gutter trash have no manners,” he laughed, stepping closer, before jerking his head towards a pair of Artillery Trucks at his back.  “My guards could learn a thing or two from the likes of you.”

Despite the praise, Swindle couldn’t help but cringe.  He didn’t need to be a master of reading people to know that Ratbat’s flattery was false.  Still, even in the face of such incredible horror, Swindle was a businessmech through and through; he couldn’t stay quiet for long.  “W-what can I do for you, senator?”

Senator Ratbat’s thin lips twisted upwards into a menacing smile, and he stepped forward, taking Swindle’s arm in his own.  Swindle fought against the instinct to shove the diminutive bot away and make a break for it.  He wasn’t so far-gone to think that  _ that _ particular set of actions would end well for him. 

“It’s a bit loud in here for conversation, don’t you think?  Come, let’s go somewhere a little more . . . private.”

His movements were cordial.  To the casual observer, the senator and Swindle would appear as a pair of friends out for a stroll.  The businessmech in him noted that it wasn’t a bad thing to be seen in the senator’s presence – it was good publicity.  The rest of him, however, couldn’t shake the feeling of a sharp blow against his chassis, of being thrown around like a toy, of being stomped on, used, discarded.  Good for business or not, he longed for a hero to swoop in and rescue him from Ratbat’s clutches.

Ratbat led him through the atrium, into the back hallway, and outside to the crystal gardens, with Swindle on his arm, and his bodyguards at his back.  There were a few other bots milling about, but the gardens were spacious enough to grant them privacy, provided they kept their voices down, and Swindle wasn’t stupid enough to shout.  Not now.

“I admit,” the senator said at last, releasing Swindle’s arm, and shoving him away, as though he were rust-bitten, “I am less than thrilled to find vermin like you walking these halls.  Why, do you suppose, did Onslaught invite you here?  What role could he possibly have for a scraplet?”

“Scraplet?”  Indignation pushed back his fear.  Swindle was far too proud of himself to allow such nasty terms to describe him.

“Hmm, yes,” Ratbat sneered, pleased to have goaded Swindle into a terse tone.  “You’re both  _ untouchable _ , after all.  You both have no place on the surface, and you’re both better off dead.”  He laughed his haughty little laugh, and his guards joined in, though  _ their _ laughter was clearly faked.

Swindle narrowed his good optic, feeling even braver in light of the insult. Facing down a senator or not, Swindle still had a  _ little _ pride.  And he was in public.  He didn’t have to take this abuse. 

“It was my assumption that Onslaught invited me because, like it or not, I am one of the most powerful mechs in all of Kaon.  That’s  _ all _ of Kaon, not just the Underground.”  It was Ratbat’s turn to glare, but Swindle wasn’t done yet.   _ Take that, you pompous oaf!  _

“In three vorns, despite living in the bowels of Kaon, despite being declared ‘spare parts’ before I’d even grown a proper frame, I’ve amassed enough wealth to compete with Alphas, and enough power to control more than half of Kaon.  Clearly, Onslaught invited me, because he thinks I’m influential enough to be worth inviting.”

All of the amusement had left Ratbat’s optics now.  “Is that what you think?” he hissed, stepping closer, and puffing out his chest and wings, to better appear larger.  Somehow, he seemed less intimidating now than he had before.  “Well, let me posit my own counter-theory.”  Amusement slowly wormed its way back into his face.  The senator snickered, then chuckled, then full on cackled like a madmech;  _ that _ couldn’t have been good.  “I think that Onslaught invited you to offer up as bait – to appease me by putting his inferiors back in their places.”  He gave a signal to his guards, and they stepped forward, forcing Swindle closer to Ratbat by their size alone.  Suddenly, with these bigger bots looming over him, Swindle was beginning to feel less confident.  He shouldn’t have tried to fight back.

“I doubt it,” he retorted, though with little conviction.  How easily-shaken he was!  How pathetic. 

Ratbat picked up on his weakness easily.  “Oh do you now?  Well, you may think your accomplishments impressive, but an Untouchable is still an Untouchable, and Onslaught is a Delta, and one with less power than you, as you’ve been so quick to point out.  I’ve never met a Delta who wasn’t eager to throw one of the lower castes on the scrapheap to further his own prospects.”

The guards stepped closer once more, boxing Swindle in, and forcing him into close proximity with Ratbat.  All pretense of bravery was but a mere memory.  Ratbat was right; he had no reason to trust Onslaught.  The opposite, rather.  Pit, Vortex had trusted him, and where was he now?  And Blast Off and Brawl, for that matter.  He never should have come, never should have let Onslaught talk him into changing his mind.

“What do you want from me?” Swindle murmured, bowing his head, surely defeated.

Ratbat laughed, not quite so boisterous as before.  It was clear he thought this whole affair to be nothing more than a game.  Swindle hated him for it.  “Onslaught is trash, but he is charismatic trash.  He’s got dangerous ideas, and a voice that bots are keen on listening to.  It’s a bad combination.”  His smile grew fond, but no less dangerous.  “I want your help in taking him down.  You can keep your wealth, keep ruling over that scrapheap you call the Underground, but Onslaught has to go.”  He reached into his subspace and pulled out an energon dagger, before slipping it into Swindle’s hand.  Swindle didn’t bother asking how he’d got it in.  Of course, Ratbat would use his power to sneak a weapon past security.

“What is –”

“I was hoping I could get that Helicopter to do it, but alas, that didn’t pan out.”

“You don’t really think someone like me stands a chance against someone like him,” Swindle muttered, his optic locked on the empty hilt of the weapon.

“If you play it right, I’m sure you’ll do just fine” Ratbat chuckled.  “Come on now, I don’t have to take you back to Lockdown, do I?”

“I . . .”  Swindle wasn’t an assassin.  He wasn’t a soldier, a fighter, or a murderer.  He was just some merchant who’d run into a rough patch of luck.  He didn’t want to kill Onslaught.  He just wanted to get back to making business deals, increasing his fortune, living his life – seeing this damn nightmare disappearing in his rearview mirror.  “I . . .”

“Senator Ratbat, is that you?”

What timing!  Blast Off had appeared from seemingly nowhere like a blessing from Primus himself – the hero Swindle had begged for.  He was quick to approach the pair, carrying another Shuttle in tow.  The decisiveness in his movements left no doubt that this interruption had been intentional.  Blast Off almost certainly suspected what Ratbat was up to, if not the exact details.

Swindle carefully shoved the dagger into his subspace.

“I’m sorry, who are you, again?” the senator asked, a bored look on his face.  He hadn’t even bothered to call off his guards.  What must this uncomfortable scene look like to an outside observer?  Anyone lesser than a senator surely would have tried to save face.

Blast Off was unfazed by the lack of recognition.  “My name is Blast Off, and this is Aphelion.  We represent the Altihexian Science Academy.”

Ratbat brightened a bit upon hearing this.  The Shuttles weren’t the nobodies he’d thought them to be, it seemed.  “Oh, oh I see.  My apologies.  I’d forgotten that foreign diplomats would be represented at this event as well.”  He paused, as though considering the information further.  “Ah, Blast Off, correct me if I’m wrong, but are you not the co-owner of VRIO?”

“I am,” Blast Off agreed.  “This gala, was in fact, my brainchild.  I am glad to see it has been so successful.  Though it is actually my position with Altihex that I wish to speak to you about.  The Academy is looking to expand – to host a campus on the surface, invite fresh, new minds into our ranks.  Kaon was the first location that came to mind for the honor, and Senator Aileron is looking for negotiations.  Would you be willing to discuss this further with me?”

Senator Ratbat fixed Blast Off with a long, scrutinizing stare, as though trying to work out his intentions.  Blast Off, however, showed no fear nor weakness in his expression.  Swindle suspected he’d had lots of practice manipulating unruly nobles in the past.  It was strangely satisfying to watch; never had he appreciated that boring-as-junk-metal Shuttle half so much as he did now. 

At last, unable to detect the lie, Ratbat caved.  He offered Swindle one more disturbingly saccharine smile, before fixing his attention solely on Blast Off.  “Why of course!  I would love to discuss this with you.  Come, let us go somewhere a little more private.”  He reached for Blast Off’s hand, and began leading him away, without so much as acknowledging the now-abandoned Swindle.  That was for the best.  Swindle didn’t want anything to do with Ratbat ever again.

“Rude senator,” the remaining Shuttle, Aphelion, if Swindle had heard that right, griped.

“Come again?”

Aphelion folded his arms over the swell of his polished chest – admittedly, it was a little distracting.  So shiny.  “What he just did.  I don’t care what caste you are; it’s proper etiquette to excuse yourself from a conversation that you’re leaving.”

Swindle’s stare fell to the ground.  “I don’t think I mind too much.  That conversation was . . . less than comfortable,” he said, banking on Aphelion’s own distaste for an unpopular, foreign senator.  The last thing he wanted to do was offend another noble.  “Blast Off really saved me back there.”

“Yeah,” Aphelion sighed, watching the pair disappear into the distance with a strangely forlorn look in his optic.  He was quick to cover it up with a smile, however.  “Looks like I lost my date again though,” he laughed.  Swindle had no doubt that the cheery sentiment was fake.  “Bot’s got it bad for Onslaught, I swear.  Still working to help the guy out the jams he gets himself into long after he stopped working here.  I just don’t get it.”

Swindle had nothing to say to that.  Relationship scruples were hardly his cask of engex.  However, he  _ was _ finally beginning to notice that he was standing here, all alone, with an Alpha who had just found himself with some sudden free-time – a foreign Alpha who just so happened to work for a very prestigious organization, provided Blast Off hadn’t lied about that. 

Swindle always  _ had _ heard good things about Altihex.

“What are you gonna do now?” he asked, sparing the bot a glance, testing the waters.  How easy would it be to con some cash from this guy?

Aphelion shrugged.  “I’m not keen on facing this party alone.  I only came ‘cause Blast Off needed moral support, but if he’s just gonna blow me off again . . .” he trailed off, unwilling to say whatever it was that was on his mind.  Instead, he pasted on one more fake smile.  “Eh, it’s been kind of a lame party so far anyway; nobles are boring.”

“Well,” Swindle said with a smile, “how would you feel about blowing this joint, and hitting a few pubs?  I can’t get back to the Underground easily, but there are a few good joints in District Five.  I have it on very good authority that Flamegame’s is  _ the _ place to be.”

“Flamegame’s?”  Aphelion perked up.  “Can’t say I’ve heard of it.”

“Of course not!  He only just hired a competent marketing guy to get his name out there.”  Swindle flashed the most winning grin he could manage with his optic busted as it was.  He didn’t even have to force it this time.

“I don’t suppose that marketing guy is  _ you _ ?”  Aphelion laughed, though there was no scorn in his voice. 

_ Busted.   _ That was no problem, however.  Swindle could still work the situation.

“Well yeah,” he admitted.  “But I wouldn’t get involved with any old mech.  Trust me, this place is good!”

Aphelion looked thoughtful at that.  “Alright then, let’s give it a go!  But I warn you, I run a casino, so I’ve got high standards on fun.  This place better live up to the hype.”

He ran a casino?  Why, didn’t that sound lucrative?  “Oh believe me, it will!”  With that, he began leading Aphelion from the gardens, but not before slipping Ratbat’s dagger between the shards of a crystal stalk, when Aphelion wasn’t looking, of course.  He wasn’t about to let himself get stopped by security on his way out, least of all for a weapon that wasn’t his.  But with that out of the way, there was nothing keeping him from a lovely night on the town with a new potential business partner.  Swindle wondered how he felt about expanding his casino business to Kaon?  Too much too soon?  Maybe.  He’d find out.

Whatever the case, he was done with this party.  He’d gotten what he’d came for and then some.  There was no more reason to deal with Onslaught, or Vortex, or Senator Ratbat, or any of this political nonsense.  From here on in, he was going to move up in the world on his own terms.

On his way out the front door, he noticed Onslaught catch his optic from his place by the main stage.  It seemed he was speaking with Night Blight prior to her big speech.  That was fine; Swindle didn’t need to hear it.  He offered Onslaught a cheeky wave goodbye, then left the gala, ready to put this nightmare behind him and get on with his bright future.

 


	22. The Shortest Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brawl needs to sort out his priorities, but that might be a bit too complicated for him.

Brawl felt sick.  He hadn’t signed up for this job to kidnap mechs, and he definitely hadn’t signed up for _this_ .  True, Vortex had a silver tongue; true, with nothing but his bare hands, he could render a mech unconscious; and true, his rotors were capable of generating devastating winds – Brawl had been on that battlefield, and he _still_ couldn’t believe such a storm had been caused by a single bot.  But stealing his tongue, his hands, and his rotors seemed a bit . . . evil.  Brawl’s one consolation was that he didn’t have to look at poor, mutilated Vortex.

Instead, he got to look at the glorified suitcase they’d shoved him into.  It . . . really wasn’t much of a consolation at all.

“You don’t gotta keep lookin’ at it,” said his partner, another Tank named Demolishor.  “Not like it’s gonna move or anything – with all the sedatives Scalpel poured in it, that thing’s probably gonna sleep for a week.”

Brawl couldn’t avert his eyes, regardless of his partner’s attempts to convince him.  “It just seems kinda mean, shoving a mech in such a tiny box like that.”

“You do realize he’s a war criminal, don’t ya?”

“Of course I do!” Brawl shot back, feeling more than a little defensive.  “It’s just – I mean, he can’t be _that_ bad, right?  Like, it was thanks to him that Onslaught got promoted, and Onslaught was a real good leader and won a lot of battles and saved a lot of lives that he otherwise wouldn’t have gotten to.  Maybe even the war ended a few years earlier than it woulda otherwise because someone like him was in charge.  So in the end, isn’t it kind of a good thing that he – err, went all psycho Copter?”

Demolishor gave him a long, hard stare.  He clearly disagreed with the argument, but couldn’t quite come up with the words to refute it.  In the end, he went with, “Well, he’s asleep anyway.  It’s not like he knows where he is.”

And to that, Brawl had no reply, so instead, he grumbled something unintelligible and turned his back on the box.  His relationship with Vortex was a complicated one, but even _he_ didn’t deserve this.  What would happen to him once they arrived in Helex?  Would he be stripped down for scrap metal?  Left to suffer in this horrid box?  Or would he be reformatted and forced to serve again?

Primus, he hoped that Onslaught came through.  Brawl had learned the hard way that Onslaught wasn’t particularly loyal to his underlings; there was every possibility that he wouldn’t care, that he would leave Vortex to his fate and continue on with his life, unbothered.  But Brawl hoped that it wouldn’t come to that.  Deep down, he still had faith in his former leader.  It was why he had called him after all.  Onslaught would get them out of this, and they’d all get to go back home to Kaon, and maybe even lead decent lives.  Or such was the fantasy.

“I think I might envy the little scraplet, to be honest,” Demolishor sighed, grabbing Brawl’s attention.

“What do you mean?  You wanna be in a tiny box?”

“I wanna be _asleep_ ,” Demolishor snapped back.  “Guard detail is boring.”

“It’s not so bad,” Brawl tried.  Truth be told, he was too nervous to be bored.

Demolishor slumped over with a groan.  “Ugh, you’re still a newbie.  You ain’t got a clue.”

“’Bout what?”

“The good senator only gives this job to people he doesn’t like.  I could be at the gala right now, but no.  Hammerstrike had to pin that broken vase on me.  I mean, it was obviously _his_ fault; have you seen that guy’s hands?”

“No.”  Brawl didn’t know what Demolishor was talking about, and he didn’t care.  He was too busy thinking about the aforementioned gala.  He would have loved to be there too.  Maybe Onslaught would finally get the upper hand over Ratbat and Brawl could finally stop wasting his time working for a complete aft that didn’t respect him.

. . .

Admittedly, Onslaught didn’t respect him either, but at least Onslaught considered him a person, which was more than he could say for his current boss.

“Oh,” Demolishor said, continuing to babble.  “Well, they’re very dainty.  I bet they’d shatter if you looked at ‘em wrong.  It’s stupid, is what it is.  What kind of guard – ack!”  The whole ship lurched, mercifully interrupting Demolishor’s spiel.  “Hey!  Watch it, you overgrown Bi-plane!” he snapped, shaking a threatening fist at the air.

The ship, a stuck-up Shuttle (weren’t they all?) named Horizon, snorted.  “Sorry, turbulence,” she explained in a tone of voice that made it clear that turbulence was not a thing she was currently having trouble with.  

Somehow, Demolishor fell for it.  Who was the stupid Tank now?  “Yeah?  Well, be careful.  You coulda hurt someone.  Like me.”

“And that truly would be a shame.”  She laughed.  Brawl laughed.  And seemingly feeling left out, Demolishor laughed too.  That was enough to ruin any fun had at his expense.  Horizon sniffed and resumed her flying, and Brawl grumbled and resumed his once-a-minute glance back to Vortex’s prison.  It was still there, unopened.

“Hey Horizon,” he ventured, “how much longer ‘til we reach Helex?”

“Technically we reached Helex fifteen minutes ago,” she groaned, “but air traffic control will forever be a pain in my afterburner.  We’re still waiting for permission to land – can’t say how long we’ll be queueing for, but I’d suggest you get comfortable . . . so long as your comfort doesn’t involve your aft making contact with any surface in here.”

“Probably woulda been faster to walk,” Demolishor laughed.  Nobody laughed with him.  Horizon didn’t care, and Brawl was slowly working himself up into a mild panic.

They were _in_ Helex.  If Onslaught was going to drop in for a last-minute save, he was really pushing it close.  They were scheduled to meet Lieutenant Colonel Sonic Boom upon arrival, whereupon, they’d transfer the goods (Vortex) to custody of the Helexian Heavy Weapons Division of the Primal Vanguard, in exchange for a tablet that Brawl hadn’t so much as considered looking at.  All he knew was that if they successfully made this trade, Vortex’s life would be over.

He could stop it.  There was no reason to wait on Onslaught; all he had to do was take out Demolishor and Horizon, which wouldn’t be difficult.  Surviving a fall from a couple thousand feet in the air would be more difficult, however.  He’d have to wait until they landed . . . and then what?  Murder an officer?  No, that was a terrible idea!  What about –

“Alright!   _Finally!_ ”  Horizon’s voice pulled him from his worries.

“Finally?  Finally what?”

“Finally what,” she scoffed.  “What do you think, slag for brains?  We have permission to land.  Looks like our guy pulled a few strings for us.”

Oh no, no!  This was bad.  He had no time to come up with a plan; already, he could feel the Shuttle descending.  He never should’ve boarded this Shuttle, never should’ve brought Vortex back to Senator Ratbat’s, or Swindle for that matter.  Pit, he never should’ve taken this damn job!  Why did he have to be such an idiot?

There was nothing for him to do.  There was nowhere to run to, not without becoming a fugitive himself, and he wasn’t quite ready to go so far for a mech he barely liked, no matter how much he disagreed with the punishment at hand.

“Alrighty, buddy.  Let’s load ‘im up,” said Demolishor, smiling without a care in the world.  Brawl grumbled non-committally, and easily scooped up Vortex’s case in a single hand, leaving Demolishor to carry a few awkwardly-shaped boxes of body-parts.  Too bad they were all a little too big for a subspace – this would look a lot less suspicious without the boxes.  Come to think of it, what if he made a scene to alert the authorities?

No, that was a terrible idea.  Brawl was a bad actor.  He’d be found out right away.

Horizon landed, opening the doors to her cargo bay, and Brawl and Demolishor stepped out, each carrying his own light load.  They were greeted by a stern-looking military official, flanked on each side by an attendant; one, a Medic, the other, a Jet.  The official himself, however, was not Lieutenant Colonel Sonic Boom.

“General Cryotek?”  Brawl knew this mech!  He was a Dragonoid, and long-standing leader of the Primal Vanguard, the mech who had personally bestowed Onslaught with more than half of the medals he’d earned.  Brawl was willing to bet that, had it not been for Senate influence, this mech would have personally seen Onslaught’s promotion through the highest ranks of the military.  But he should have been in Iacon.  What was he doing all the way out here?

“What?  Where’s Sonic Boom?” asked Demolishor, unconsciously clutching his boxes tighter.

“Ah, I’m afraid he couldn’t make it,” Cryotek said with a smooth grin.  “But as his superior, I am authorized to make the trade in his place.”

Demolishor and Brawl exchanged nervous glances.  Ratbat had given them explicit orders regarding the transfer of the cargo, but this was Cryotek.  Surely he could be trusted.

“Just do it,” Horizon groaned.  “I’d like to get back home before the party’s over.”

“Y-yeah, good point!”  Demolishor, for once, was in agreement with Horizon.  He stepped forward, and loaded his boxes on the much smaller Jet.  The poor thing stumbled awkwardly beneath the additional weight with an irritated groan.

Brawl hesitated.  He still had most of Vortex in his hands.  He could still run away.  But no, Cryotek was fast.  He’d have no problem stopping him.

“Brawl?” Cryotek prompted.  He was still smiling, but there was an insistence about him, a subtle warning in his soft yellow optics.  Brawl had no choice.  He relinquished Vortex to the Medic, who had stepped forward to take him.  “Thank you very much for your cooperation.  Do have a safe trip home.”  With the transaction complete, General Cryotek went on his way, leaving Brawl and Demolishor to return to Horizon.   

“Whew, glad that’s over,” Demolishor sighed.  “Now we can get to the party!”

“What makes you think _you’re_ going?” Horizon shot back, more out of habit, than anything.  “A high-class party is no place for a Delta.”

“Well, it takes place in Kaon – anyone wearing Senator Ratbat’s sigil can get in.  Them’s the rules.”

“Brawl, hurry it up already.”

Horizon’s demand brought him back to attention.  He hadn’t moved since he’d given up Vortex – hadn’t so much as averted his optics.  This was a mistake, surely.

“Aww, what’s wrong?  You got fee-fees for a war criminal?”

Brawl narrowed his optics.  “I don’t got fee-fees for –” he cut himself off, aware of how ridiculous he sounded.  “I mean, I don’t got _feelings_ for a war criminal!  I just . . .”  Just what?  Just didn’t agree with his treatment?  Well, that was true, but he somehow doubted the truth would go over well with this lot.  But what then?  What could he say to fix everything?  “I just ain’t sure I trust General Cryotek.”

Horizon groaned.  “Please Brawl, you’re hardly known for your judgment of character.  I’m in charge here,   _I_ think Cryotek’s legit, and that’s all that matters.”

“I think . . .” Brawl began, the cogs in his brain module struggling their hardest to piece together what was sure to be an excellent plan.  “I think I’ll . . . go check up on them.”

“Really?!” Demolishor grunted, burying his face in his hollow fingers.  “Come on Brawl, who cares about what happens to that criminal?  We got a _party_ to get to.  Think about it!  High class engex, from Mechanica’s Old Distillery itself, and it’s all _free_!  I ain’t gonna miss this for nothin’!”

Bingo.  “Go on ahead without me then.  Kaon’s not far; I’ll find my own way back.”

Uncertain, Demolishor cast a glance back at Horizon, who sunk on her landing gears, in an alt mode equivalent of a shrug.  “Okay then.  You do whatever you want.   _We’re_ gonna go have fun.  Later!”

Excellent.  That got rid of two of his obstacles.  Now, all he had to do was catch up with Cryotek, beat him up, pry Vortex from his icy grasp, put Vortex back together, and then find somewhere to hide.  Easy, right?

. . .

Well, winging it had worked out for him alright so far.  There was no reason to stop now.

He waited until Horizon had taken off, disappearing into the distant sky, before barreling off through the air field, his destination: the general direction Cryotek had left in.  It didn’t occur to him that he really had no idea where these mechs had taken Vortex, nor did he bother remembering that, with a Jet in their midst, transporting two-and-a-half mechs out of Helex wasn’t an impossibility.  All of that thinking nonsense just made things more complicated.  The shortest distance between two points was a straight line, and so, Brawl would run in a straight line until someone or something got in his way.

He ignored the curious stares of the few attendees he passed; it seemed that no one was too keen to get in the way of a charging Tank.  All the better for Brawl.  He was able to pass completely unhindered until he reached the first hangar door.  When it refused to open for him, he pried it from its hinges.   _Take that, door!_

A pair of Minicons leapt to their feet, one looking frantically for a weapon, the other shivering hard enough that Brawl could hear her armor clatter.  Neither mech was a threat to him, but they could be helpful.

“Where’s General Cryotek?” he growled, hoping sheer intimidation would make up for a sore lack of negotiation skills.

“C-Cryotek?” the shivering mech squeaked.  The other was a little braver.

“We ain’t tellin’ ya nufin’!” he snapped.  However, picking him up by the scruff of the neck and giving him a good, hard shake was enough to change his mind.  “I-I mean, he’s in Hangar C, sir!  Two buildings east of here.  Requisitioned a vessel from Lieutenant Colonel Sonic Boom before havin’ him court martialed.”

“What?”  Court martialed?  Why would he court martial Sonic Boom?  Something fishy was going on here, it seemed.

“Y-yeah!  Sureshock and I was workin’ that hangar.  We’re on break right now, I swear!  Ain’t shirkin’ our duties or nothin’!  Just, we saw it all go down, her and me.  If he ain’t left for Iacon yet, then he’d be there.  That’s the military hangar.”

“Y-yes!” the other mech, Sureshock, added.  “We just saw ‘im go that way wif’ Ambulon and Jetlag.  They was carryin’ some awful heavy-lookin’ boxes.  Prob’ly still there.  If you hurry, you can prob’ly catch ‘im!”

Hah!  Going straight was the best choice after all.  Brawl was on fire tonight!  He put the frightened Minicon down, and made for the door.  “Thanks guys!  You’ve been a big help!”

He was in such a good mood, he didn’t even bother retaliating when Grindor threw out a, ‘I hope he ices you good!’ his way.  He knew where Cryotek was.  He knew where Vortex was.  Everything was going to be okay.

No one bothered him as he raced for Hangar C – fantastic!  He kicked down the door with marginally more effort than the previous hangar, and burst into the main room, ready to fight off the world to save this thrice-damned Copter who couldn’t keep his idiot self out of trouble for five minutes.

As it turned out, there was no need for the dramatics.  

“Brawlie?  Is that you?”

Vortex was lying on a slab, his visor dimmed, but online.  The plating on his wrists had been removed, and the medic from before was hard at work, holding a detached, grey hand in his own, carefully reattaching it, though he’d paused to give Brawl a nervous stare.  Another glance told Brawl that Vortex’s jaw had already been reattached, and his vocaliser reactivated.  They were fixing him!  

 _Why_ were they fixing him?

“I told you not to talk,” the medic snapped, returning to his work.  “Your jaw needs time to reintegrate.”  Vortex groaned sleepily in response.  It was clear he was still under the effects of the sedatives, though perhaps not so much as Demolishor had anticipated.

“Brawl, do come in,” Cryotek said, casually.  He rose from the wall he’d been leaning against, talking to his Jet friend.  To Brawl’s surprise, he didn’t seem too upset that a raging Tank had just burst into his hangar, optics blazing and temper flaring.  “Take a seat.”  He gestured at a large bench at his side.

“W-what is this?” Brawl croaked.  Vortex was a wanted war criminal, returned to Helex after three vorns’ absence.  He should have been locked in a cell!  He should have been undergoing a reformatting.  What were they doing, putting him back together like this?

“We’re putting him back together, obviously,” the Jet snorted.  “Y’all did a number on him.  Pretty fragged up.”

“He’s a really good escape artist,” Brawl explained, not sure why he was bothering to defend Ratbat’s actions.  “Senator Ratbat wasn’t gonna take any chances.”

“I’m sure,” snorted the Medic.

“Now now, none of that.”  Cryotek moved closer, swooping around Brawl, and directing him to the bench, once he’d decided Brawl was taking too long to move.  Instead of returning to his wall, however, he took a seat at Brawl’s side, wearing a smile that was strangely threatening.  “So Brawl, what brings you here – alone, no less?  You aren’t accusing me of cheating your senator?”

“Ah . . . no.”  Brawl turned his focus to his fingers, glaring very intently at the heavy, black digits.  Somehow, talking to Cryotek like this, he felt much like a disgraced protoform.

“Then why?”

“I was . . . um.  It’s just –”  He struggled for the words to say.  Why _had_ he come?  It was a supremely foolish thing to do in retrospect.

“Aww, were you worried about me?” Vortex croaked weakly.  That earned him a smack from the Medic.

“What did I tell you?”

Vortex grumbled himself silent again.

With an amused chuckle, Cryotek turned his attention from Vortex back to Brawl.  “Is that true?”

“No!” Brawl growled, but his protest was short-lived.  “Well, I mean, maybe?  I just – I don’t know.  I didn’t want him to get reformatted?  It seemed . . . wrong.”

“He was responsible for the deaths of hundred of bots back on Archa Seven,” Cryotek replied, his tone neutral.

Brawl returned to staring hard at his hand.  “I know.  I was – I was there, but – I dunno.  Reformatting seems . . . wrong?”  He glanced up hopefully at Cryotek.  Maybe, if he showed how sincere he was, he wouldn’t be arrested?

“We’re not reformatting him,” Cryotek said.

“You’re not?”

Cryotek shook his head.  “Tell me, Brawl.  Are you loyal to Onslaught?  Or Senator Ratbat?”

Was this a trick question?  If he answered Onslaught, would he get fired?  If he answered Senator Ratbat, would he get murdered?  Argh!  This was hard!  Time to turn his brain off, and let his mouth do the talking.

“Uh . . . Onslaught?”

Pale lips twisted upwards into a mischievous smile.  “He did mention that you might do something like this.”

“What?”

“Onslaught.  He called in a favor.”

“What?”  Brawl was starting to feel like a broken record, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.  What did _Onslaught_ have to do with any of this?

“As it turns out, your friend here wasn’t classified as personnel, but as a weapon.  And a weapon can’t be held accountable for a crime – that falls to the handlers of the weapon.  Sonic Boom and Chargebeam made the call to use an experimental weapon, so _they’ve_ been arrested in his place.  In the meantime, due to his unique position as sole-surviving ground commander from that ill-fated mission, Onslaught has requested custody of the weapon in question, and I have granted it to him.”

Brawl cocked his head, feeling all the more like an idiot.  “What?”

Cryotek laughed, giving Brawl a pat on the back before rising to his feet.  “Onslaught called in a favor or two, so now, Vortex belongs to him, instead of the Polity of Helex.  We’re just fixing him up before we jet him back to Kaon.”

“To Kaon . . .”  Brawl didn’t understand why any of this was happening, but he wasn’t about to complain.  Vortex wasn’t getting reformatted, and was apparently going back to Onslaught to boot.  Ratbat had lost this particular battle, due to that legendary Onslaught cunning.  This was a good thing!  Right?

“Uh, are you gonna tell Senator Ratbat about this?”

“About what, Brawl?”

Brawl paused, considering his words as carefully as he could.  “Um, about me?  Coming here?  To check up on him?”  He jerked a thumb towards Vortex.

“Do you want me to?”

Primus, there were so many hard questions to consider today.  Brawl didn’t want to think; he just wanted to go home.  He wanted to go back to working for Onslaught.  He wanted everything to turn out alright.  Was that so hard?

“I don’t . . . I don’t want to work for Senator Ratbat anymore.  But I – I don’t wanna go to jail for treason or anything?”

Cryotek shrugged.  “I can’t solve all your problems for you, Brawl.  But I imagine Onslaught has a plan; he always does.  So just do whatever it is you want to do.”

Yeah!  It was so simple; Brawl just had to act like Brawl.  It was working out well for him tonight; there was no reason to overthink it.  Onslaught would make everything okay; he was good at that.  “I want to go back to Kaon.  Can I go with you guys?”

The Jet groaned.  “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna make me carry that fat-aft.”

Cryotek shot her a glare.  “For that comment, I think I will.”  

The Jet winced, before slumping backwards, slamming her helm into the wall at her back.  “Frag it all.  I hate Tanks.”

Cryotek ignored the complaint, instead focusing on Brawl.  “Ambulon’s a good medic, and Vortex was already sedated, though he’s surprisingly resilient.”  He gave a concerned look towards the medical berth, where Vortex had propped himself up on an elbow to watch the Medic work, enthusiastic curiosity in his optics.  Cryotek turned his back on the sight with more haste than was perhaps necessary.  “He should be travel-ready within a cycle.  We’ll have Jetlag fly you back to Kaon after that.  In the meantime, I’m going to take a look at that door you broke.  You stay here, and for the love of Primus, don’t touch anything.  Do you understand?”

“Yes sir!  Thank you sir!”  The dig aside, Brawl couldn’t have been more grateful.  It was nice to not have to think for himself; taking orders was what he’d been made for, and he was all too happy to oblige.  He shifted on the bench, making himself as comfortable as could be, and watched Ambulon work.

The repairs were done quickly.  According to Ambulon, Vortex’s amputations had been performed with reattachment in mind; it made his job pretty easy.  Soon enough, Vortex was sitting up on the med slab, admiring his newly-attached hands, working his jaw, swinging his rotors as far as they could move while seated.  It was clear that the sedatives hadn’t quite worn off yet; he was slumping, his optics were dim, he may have tried to pretend to be his usual sassy self, but there was no hiding his exhaustion.

“Alright,” said Ambulon, admiring his job well done.  “You’re going to want to avoid moving too rigorously for another cycle yet, but otherwise you’re good to go.  Don’t strain anything, and that includes your vocaliser.”

“Aye aye sir,” Vortex said, his voice still raspy.

“I’ll go get Jetlag then, and you can get out of here.  Enjoy your evening.”  With that said, Ambulon dipped into the waiting room in the back, leaving Brawl and Vortex all alone.  Vortex immediately proceeded to ignore Ambulon’s warning not to strain his vocaliser.

“Hey Brawl?”

“What?”  Brawl replied after a moment of confused silence.  He then added, “Wait, didn’t Ambulon say not to talk?”

Vortex shrugged.  “Eh, he said not to talk _too much_ .  But there’s no harm in talking a _little_ , yeah?”

“I guess?”  It sounded reasonable.

“Then come over here, I have something I wanted to say to you.”  He spoke to Brawl, but his optics were on the door, all too aware that his captors would be back soon.

For once, Brawl had the wisdom to resist a dangerous order.  “If I go over there, you’ll just stab me.  You can tell me what you wanna say from over there.”

“I won’t stab you,” Vortex protested, but he didn’t argue too hard.  “I just . . .” he trailed off, slumping over with a weak groan.  “Frag, I don’t feel good.”

The request wasn’t enough to get Brawl to move closer, but concern was.  He shuffled to the slab, leaning in close to make sure Vortex was okay.  “Should I call the doctor?”  Really, he ought to have known better.  Small, sharp digits wrapped around his wrist, slipping up beneath his plating, resting dangerously over the delicate wiring within.  For one terrifying moment, Brawl feared he’d messed everything up, but the moment extended on and on, until it became clear that Vortex wasn’t going to attack.  Evidently, he’d changed his mind.

Instead, he slumped back over, allowing his hand to slip limply onto the slab at his side.  “Ugh, look,” he groaned.  “I just – I wanted to say thanks.”

“Thanks?  What for?”  Brawl stepped back, out of range of those dangerous claws, just in case he changed his mind again, but Vortex made no attempt to pursue.

He lifted his head, letting those exhausted red optics settle on Brawl’s own.  “For coming back for me.  No one’s stuck their neck out for me like that in a long time.”

“Oh, uh –  don’t mention it?”

Vortex choked a bitter laugh.  “You and Blast Off –  you’re all too good, you know that?”

“We are?”  He wasn’t used to being called good.  It was kind of nice.

“Sure are,” Vortex snorted.  “I – I don’t really like the idea of _belonging_ to –” he cut himself off.  “Well, I guess he beat me, didn’t he?”

“What are you –”

“But, if he’s got mechs like you working under him, I guess he must be an alright guy.  He _did_ just save my aft.”

Brawl cocked his head.  Was Vortex talking about Onslaught?  “Uh . . .”

He was saved from having to reply by the well-timed arrival of Jetlag and Ambulon.

“Alright boys, let’s get outta here.”

“Yes please!” Brawl said, stepping towards the door.  If they left now, they could still make the gala; he was looking forward to seeing how it all panned out.  Onslaught had saved Vortex from a horrible fate.  Suddenly, Senator Ratbat didn’t seem like such a threat.  “I wanna go home.”

“Your Copter gonna be okay?”

Brawl turned back to check on Vortex.  He’d pushed himself from the slab, and was now standing on wobbling legs.  He looked two seconds away from passing out, and Brawl was less than keen on allowing that to happen.  He stepped back, laying a protective hand on Vortex’s shoulder, ignoring the nervous look Ambulon fixed on him.  Brawl was used to such stares; Tanks had a reputation for clumsiness, and maybe Brawl fit the stereotype, but he was being careful.  He wasn’t about to let anything bad happen to his new friend.

And that’s what they were, weren’t they?  Friends.  Vortex had let himself be vulnerable back there, honest.  It was different from that time back in that Underground motel.  Brawl had come to know Vortex a little better in their time together; it was difficult for him to be sincere, and maybe Brawl wasn’t the best judge of character, but that confession had seemed far too difficult, too disjointed, to be a lie.  Vortex was grateful – to the extent that he’d had the opportunity to escape, and hadn’t taken it, and that made Brawl happy.

Vortex didn’t love him, _couldn’t_ love him.  But that was okay.  Love wasn’t the only way two bots could connect.  Friendship was just as important, and with a mech like Vortex, Brawl was willing to bet that it was even more so.  He looked forward to working with him, to allowing reconciliation after the tumultuous start to their relationship.  He looked forward to their friendship.

Jetlag led their lot into the hangar, where Cryotek was waiting, and transformed to alt mode.  It was sleek, and lightweight – built for speed, rather than carrying passengers, but there was just enough room in her cockpit for Brawl and Vortex, provided he carried the Copter in his lap, which neither seemed to mind.  The pair loaded up, and bid farewell to Cryotek and Ambulon.

In less than a klik, the three had taken to the sky, with Kaon as their destination.  Brawl didn’t know what would happen once they got there, what would happen to himself, or Vortex, or even Senator Ratbat, but he wasn’t worried.  With Onslaught in charge, he had no doubts that everything was going to be alright.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cryotek is the sexiest palette swap of Megatron ever. u.u;
> 
> I edited this when half asleep, so sorry if there are any glaring flaws...


	23. Sedation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vortex reflects on his new lot in life.

It wasn’t hard to pretend to be asleep, not with his head as heavy as it was.  Vortex didn’t know what it was that Ratbat had used to knock him out, but it was pretty potent stuff.  Even now, hours after its administration, he was still feeling groggy and lethargic.  He didn’t have the energy to talk to Brawl – he barely had the energy to stay awake, but he couldn’t afford to fall unconscious again.  His fate was hanging in the balance, and like the Pit was he going to allow himself to be a passive bystander in his own future.  He’d offlined his optics and cuddled up to Brawl’s chest, resisting the urge to give in to the warm comfort of sleep, all so he could focus his energies on the problems that had been dumped on his lap, and quite unwillingly at that. 

His secret was out.  In a moment of idiocy, he’d manage to gift Ratbat with every one of his deepest, most-suppressed memories.  Once the good senator learned of his escape, it would only be so long until he pulled every string in his arsenal to catch Vortex, to bring him in, and take him apart, should he ever stray out of line again.  To avoid such a fate, he had to accept the less-than-amazing alternative: he belonged to Onslaught now. 

The thought of it left a bitter taste in his mouth.  In practicality, this was what he’d wanted – he’d be working for the mastermind, in the position he’d been trying to weasel his way into all year.  But the how of it was all wrong.  He didn’t know what being Onslaught’s slave, or indentured servant, or ward, or whatever would mean for him exactly, but what he did know, was that his life was no longer his. 

Onslaught had him backed into a corner.  True, it was a corner he’d chosen for himself, but the inescapability of the situation took away any sense of satisfaction or achievement.  He couldn’t leave.  Ratbat had his number now.  And General Cryotek, and the Helixian Heavy Weapons Division as well.  He was too notorious to hide in Lower Kaon, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to start his life all over again in a new city, provided he could escape Onslaught at all. 

He didn’t know what to do.  He didn’t know what he even  _ wanted _ to do.  He wanted to exist, he wanted to feel, but beyond that, what? 

What did it matter?  He’d lost his right to choose.  It was pointless to spend too much time dwelling on it.  He’d instigated this high-stakes game with Onslaught, and he’d lost.  He had no one to blame for his current predicament but himself.

_ To the victor go the spoils,  _ he thought, bitterly.  This was all so incredibly fucked up.  He wasn’t going to think about it anymore.  He was going to just let himself pass out, and not deal with Onslaught until he absolutely had to.  With that in mind, he shifted, making himself more comfortable, and settled in, determined to sleep the rest of the flight to Kaon.

“We’re here.” 

Vortex groaned and let his optics flicker back on.  “What do you mean, ‘we’re here?’  It took twice as long for us to get to Helex from Kaon.”

Brawl’s hands grabbed onto his shoulders, shifting Vortex in his lap.  “You were awake for that?” he asked, somehow nervous.  How adorable. 

“Yeah, I was awake for that,” Vortex confirmed, though he wished that he hadn’t been.  Being crammed up, knees to chin, inside that lightless case, had been nothing short of hellish.  He’d taken to counting the seconds just to keep him sane.  He trembled at the memory.

“The Port of Kaon doesn’t get much traffic, so there’s much less waiting around,” Jetlag explained, bringing him back to the pleasant present.  “Unfortunately, Kaon is a no-fly zone, so I’m going to have to walk you to Onslaught.”  There was disgust in her voice, and her fuselage gave a great shudder; evidently she wasn’t keen on the idea.  Vortex saw his chance.

“Why not let Brawl take me?” he asked, ramping up the weakness in his voice.  With as miserable as he was feeling, it wasn’t hard to do.

“Like I’m gonna let you do that,” Jetlag scoffed.  “You’ll just try and give him the slip.  I know your kind.”

“Rotaries?” Vortex asked, innocently.

Jetlag very nearly said yes, but she caught herself just in time.  Priceless.  “Con-artists!  You play sweet and innocent, but you’ve always got a trick in the cockpit.  Now, get out.”  She raised her canopy, and carefully, Brawl shifted Vortex, until he was carrying him under an arm.  This new position crushed his still-tender rotors uncomfortably, and not in the good way; he let out a whine, a whine which in any other situation would have been stifled.  But he needed to play up the weakness.

“I’m sorry!” Brawl cried, nearly dropping Vortex back onto the seat.  Fortunately, he regained his grip just in time.  “Are you okay?”

Vortex groaned noncommittally in response.  “Just hurry up.  I think I might purge if you keep up with this whole moving thing,” he croaked, obeying his optics’ recommendation to offline themselves.  Damn, these drugs were strong.  He was gonna have to figure out where Ratbat had gotten them.  Purely for scientific reasons, of course.

With a heavy clang, Brawl landed on the floor of the hangar, having jumped from Jetlag’s wing.  Once free of her cargo, the seafoam-colored Jet shrank down to her root mode, shaking out stiff joints as she went.

“Alrighty,” she said, jerking her head from side to side, an action which created a pleasant  _ crack  _ from her neck joints, “Let’s find Onslaught so I can get home.”

Vortex, still underneath Brawl’s arm, cringed closer to his captor.  He activated his comm.  [ _ Hey Brawl, do something!  I don’t wanna go with her.] _

“What?” Brawl said, dumbly, looking between Jetlag and Vortex.

[ _ Use sub-voc, rust-for-brains!] _

_ [Hey!] _ Brawl shot back.

[ _ Don’t look at me.  Do what I say.]   _ Jetlag was walking closer.  He didn’t have long to convince Brawl to go along with the plan.  Lucky for him, Brawl was pretty amenable.  They were friends now, after all.  Vortex would milk that relationship for all it was worth.  [ _ Onslaught is at his gala right now.  I’m not sure if Jetlag knows that, but I know for a fact she ain’t got a ticket.  No way the guards’ll let her in.  But  _ you _ still wear Senator Ratbat’s sigil. _ ]

[ _But I don’t work for Senator Ratbat anymore,_ ] Brawl protested.

[ _ Don’t matter.  You  _ wear _ the sigil; as far as anyone else is concerned, you still work for him.  Tell Jetlag here that you’ll take me to Onslaught yourself. _ ]

[ _ I don’t think she’ll go for – _ ]

[ _ Just do it! _ ] 

Jetlag was reaching out now.  Vortex highly doubted that he’d be able to give Jetlag the slip, but Brawl?  He’d have no problem escaping if Brawl was his prison guard.

“Wait,” said Brawl, pulling Vortex towards him.  “I can take him.”

Jetlag narrowed her optics and folded her arms over her chest.  “Really?” she scoffed.  “I already said, I’m not gonna let the little rat out of my sight until he’s safely in Onslaught’s hands.”

[ _ Tell her what I told you! _ ]

“Uh, I don’t know if you’ll be able to reach Onslaught right now.  He’s at this fancy party, and you need tickets to get in.” 

Jetlag eyed him suspiciously, but there was a twinge of worry in her field.  “How long is the party?”

“It’s supposed to last the night.  So if you have work to get back to, I can take Vortex.  I got Ratbat’s sigil on my arm still, so they have to let me in.”

_ Come on.  Take the bait! _

“No offense, but leaving him with you increases the risk of escape astronomically.”  Despite the protestation, she appeared to be caving.  All she needed was a little push.

Vortex gave another weak whine, causing both Brawl and Jetlag to take notice.

[ _ She’s wrong.  I don’t think I could even stand up right now. _ ]  It was  _ mostly _ a lie. 

Obedient as ever, Brawl gave his reply.  “No way he’s gonna escape from me.  He can barely stand.  He tries anything, I’ll overpower him – no prob.”

Jetlag looked very much like she wanted to protest again, but she also looked quite like she was wanting to leave.  “Well, I suppose you’re not wrong,” she said, slowly.  Suspicious yellow optics fell on Vortex; he remained limp beneath Brawl’s arm.  “Very well.  I was only doing this as a favor for the general anyway.  You take it from here.  Just make sure to tell me the second you have confirmation that the target has been securely delivered to Onslaught.”

“Yes sir!”  Brawl was all too agreeable – bless his spark!  Jetlag gave them no trouble, and with Vortex still under his arm, Brawl left the hangar.  They called a Heavy Transport to taxi them to the venue; a Tank carrying a Rotary around District One was sure to turn more than a few heads, and for once, Vortex was in no mood to be carried around anyway. 

Within the hour, they had reached the crowd of high-profile, decked-out mechs lined up to get into Onslaught’s gala.  With their Delta-caste frames, work-worn armor, and fragrance-free odors, neither Vortex nor Brawl belonged amongst such ritzy bots, and if they hadn’t known right away, the sneers of their neighbors in line did a fair job of reminding them.

In the time it had taken the pair to arrive, Vortex had gained enough strength to stand and walk, but he was leaning heavily on Brawl, who had wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders, ready to catch him in the inevitable event that his legs or equilibrium gave out.  The bot behind them, tall, flashy, and with an alt-mode that wasn’t particularly obvious, sniffed.

“Disgusting,” he said to no one in particular.  “I’m not functionist, but poor Deltas need to stay in the Underground, instead of disturbing us with their stink.”

Ordinarily, Vortex would have been all over a challenge like that, but his head was pounding too much to think up any witty comebacks.  Instead, he remained silent, and nuzzled his helm against Brawl’s chest – the best form of protest he could think of at the moment.  He received an offended gasp for his efforts.

“It’s alright,” said another mech from somewhere behind them.  “Once the guards find out they have no tickets, they’ll be carted out of here – hopefully to jail for disturbing the peace.”

Vortex said nothing, but Brawl wasn’t about to let the snide comments slide.

“Actually, I work for Senator Ratbat,” he said, turning around to address the mechs.  Surprisingly there was no anger in his voice.  Did he even realize he was being insulted?  “I can go pretty much anywhere in Kaon that I want, so long as I wear this sigil.”  He pointed at the indigo sigil on his shoulder.  The hecklers drew back, still offended, but now with less ammo to use against them.

“Yes,” said the tall one, “well,  _ you _ may be allowed in, but I see no Sigil of Ratbat on your  _ friend _ there.”

“I’m his plus one,” Vortex chirped, hiding his weakness behind a cheery demeanor.

“Of course,” the second bot laughed.  “Because  _ that _ will get you in.”

Vortex frowned.  He hadn’t considered the possibility of not being allowed in, but now that this aft mentioned it, it struck him as a rather likely outcome.  This did, however, provide him with a nice opportunity to scheme.

[ _ You hear that, Brawl?  I’m not gonna be allowed in. _ ]

“What should we do?” Brawl asked back, earning him a sharp elbow to the torso-seam.

[ _ Sub-voc, Brawl.  Sub-voc.  These rich afts don’t need to hear us scheming. _ ]

[ _ Sorry. _ ]  At their backs, the pair of rich mechs began talking amongst themselves, ignoring Brawl and Vortex.  [ _ What should we do? _ ]

[ _ I think you should go on ahead. _ ]  Before Brawl had the chance to protest, he added, [ _ I’ll call Onslaught, and have him get me in.  No harm no foul. _ ] 

Brawl didn’t look like he was buying it.  It figured that he’d choose  _ now _ to develop a brain module.

[ _ Are you gonna be okay?  You’re still pretty out of it. _ ]

That was it?  Vortex nearly wanted to laugh.  He refrained, if only just.  [ _ It’s okay, Brawlie.  I won’t be on my own for long, I’m sure.  You just go on in there, and enjoy yourself.  You’ve earned it. _ ]

Brawl gave that some thought, cocking his head and squinting his optics.  Undoubtedly, he knew that something was wrong with this scenario, but the poor oaf was simply too dumb and trusting to make sense of it.  At last, he said, [ _ Alright then.  Call me if you need anything. _ ] 

With extra care, he stood Vortex upright, hands floating nearby in case he wobbled too far.  It was endearing, if not entirely too patronizing.  Vortex shooed him away.

“I’m good.  You go.”  He turned, throwing out his arms as the world kept spinning without him; the action was just enough to keep him from falling, though there was a fair amount of flailing of limbs and rotors to keep him on his feet.  Once stable, he hobbled out of the line on legs that felt like filament wires, and made his way back towards the front gates.

He’d done it.  He was home free.  If he wanted to, he could leave; there was nothing stopping him.  He could start walking until he reached the edge of Kaon, and keep walking until he found the Underground of Tarn – worse even than the pits of Kaon, if he could believe the hearsay.  Pit, he could follow the Sonic Canyons all the way to the Acid Wastes, and slip into Valvolux if he  _ really _ wanted to.

_ Dream on, Vortex,  _ he snorted.  As he was, he would have never made it. 

There was nowhere for him to go, nowhere for him to hide – not really.  Even if he escaped Kaon, he had no supplies, he was running low on funds, and he couldn’t go back to the Underground unnoticed, not with Ratbat after his head.  Pit, anywhere he went from now on, he’d be risking exposure.  It was the price he paid for infamy.  Either he accepted Onslaught’s protection, or faced Ratbat’s wrath.

At least with Onslaught, he had the illusion of freedom . . .

Kicking himself mentally, he turned on his comm.

[ _ Hey Onslaught, guess who! _ ]

It took a moment for the mech in question to answer, but sure enough, after a few seconds’ wait, an annoyed growl popped up on the other end.  [ _ I really oughtn’t be surprised that you’re lucid enough to call me right now. _ ]

[ _ Bzzt!  Wrong.  You gotta  _ guess _ , _ ] Vortex shot back, slumping against the front gate and sliding to the ground.  A pair of guards eyed him suspiciously.

[ _ Why are you calling me, Vortex? _ ]

Vortex laughed.  [ _ I’d have thought it would be obvious, what with you now owning my soul and everything.  Nice thinking m’lord! _ ]  He’d meant it as a joke, but the last word rang with an unintended bitterness.  No matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, he was not okay with this.

[ _ Enlighten me, _ ] Onslaught replied.  [ _ I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. _ ]

[ _ Let me in.  I’m bored. _ ]

There was a pause from the other end.  [ _ Bored . . . I thought I told Cryotek to keep you in custody until you were brought to me? _ ]

[ _ Yeah, well, he didn’t do a good job of it.  Here I am, all alone on your front doorstep, and these two guards are coming over here to scoop me up.  Can you believe it?  They think I’m a ne’er do well! _ ]

[ _ I can’t imagine where they got that impression, _ ] Onslaught shot back, unconcerned.  [ _ Perhaps you ought to have stayed with your escort. _ ]

Vortex eyed the approaching guards, increasingly nervous.  Should he need to escape, he would be in trouble.  There was already a tingling numbness forming in his left foot.  If it spread any further, he wouldn’t be able to run.  [ _ Aw, come on, Ons.  I  _ could _ have run away, but I didn’t.  Yet, anyway.  I might have to, if you don’t stop these guards.  And then I’ll be right back in Ratbat’s clutches – all your hard work, down the drain.  What a waste.  Urk! _ ]  He doubled over, his tanks lurching in his stomach.  Frag it all, he couldn’t pass out  _ now _ !

[ _ Ratbat knows he can’t give you back to the Primal Vanguard, or will once he finds out what’s happened.  If he catches you this time, you’ll mostly likely end up rotting away in a prison cell for the rest of your life, which, if I may be frank, would be entirely deserved. _ ]  Onslaught spoke with a cool casualness, one that implied that his apathy was genuine.  He didn’t care that Vortex was, once again, in a jam, which was bad, as right now, Onslaught was the only one who could get Vortex out of said jam.

[ _ Look, _ ] said Vortex, feeling the anxiety welling up in him with every step the guards took.  They were so close now.  [ _ What do I have to do to get you to help me?  I’ll do anything!  I’ll play the faithful servant, or whatever.  Lick your pedes, pour your drinks, call you ‘Lord.’  I just – don’t let them lock me up again! _ ]  Being imprisoned by Ratbat hadn’t been the  _ worst _ experience of his life.  True, they’d removed a number of his body parts and rendered him mute and incapable of independent movement, but Vortex was creative.  Even with those limitations, he’d been able to seduce his guards into providing him with entertainment.  Entertainment, however, was fleeting, and on the whole, it wasn’t an experience he was looking to repeat.  Helplessness was not a feeling he cared for.

[ _ Very well, _ ] sighed Onslaught, as though dealing with Vortex was a bother.  [ _ But know that the moment you cease to obey me is the moment I let you fall into our good Senator’s clutches. _ ]

[ _ Y-yes sir! _ ] Vortex squeaked.  The guards stopped walking; both lifted a hand to their audial, an obvious indication of receiving a comm over vocal channels.  As one, both guards gave Vortex a scrutinizing stare, before returning to their posts.  Feeling he was out of the woods, he allowed himself to slump once more against the gate, resisting the urge to offline his optics and take a nice nap.  This wasn’t the time.

Within a few minutes, Onslaught’s cute Hovercraft assistant, High Tide, was at his side, helping him to his feet, and leading him past the doormen.  “This one is with Onslaught, sirs.  Thank you.”  She said nothing else as she led Vortex through the front hall, beyond the security check (it was probably a good thing Ratbat had emptied Vortex’s subspace upon his imprisonment), and into the atrium.

In retrospect, maybe coming here had been a bad idea.

Usually, Vortex was the sort of mech who loved to get lost in a crowd.  More mechs meant more stimulation, and more stimulation meant more satisfaction.  For a mech that thrived on sensation, Vortex was more at home pressed close to the frames of a dozen dancing clubgoers than he ever was in his own house.  A party of this scale should have been perfect for him.

Right now, however the sedatives were still weighing him down, overloading his poor, addled senses with their commands to be still, to sleep.  Face after face after face of wealthy aristocrats began to blur together, until the entire room was transformed into an incomprehensible spiral of motion that had his raw, sensitive rotors twitching to and fro, in an effort to regain his upset balance. 

Unfortunately for him, the jittery movements of his extremities had him unintentionally whacking mechs as he passed them by, earning a sharp flare of pain for him, striking him all the way down to his spark, and an angry yell from his hapless victim, adding to the cacophony of sound that his audials were struggling to parse.  By this point, he could no longer distinguish one voice from the next; to be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure he was being yelled at at all.

He lost track of High Tide.  That was fine.  It was one less input to keep track of.  There had to have been at least a hundred mechs in this hall, obstructing his vision and deafening his audials and bumping into his tender frame.  That was fine too.  What wasn’t fine, was the smell.

Vortex had always been sensitive to smells, but living in the filthy Underground, spending his days fragging his way through rust-bitten bulkheads, and his nights buried up to his elbows in mech fluids, he’d developed a high tolerance for even the worst odors.  But this was different.  This was high society. 

For whatever reason, wealthy bots liked to pretend that their frames never omitted the same odors as a poor bot’s did.  They would obscure their scents in too many chemical showers, exotic oils from all across the galaxy, expensive paint jobs, and even air fresheners for their interiors, and that was ignoring the pungent smells of the wide variety of energons and ores they fed upon.  There were too many smells, all of them strong, all of them fighting to be the dominant fragrance within the room. 

They pierced Vortex’s poor olfactory sensors, stinging his processor, and making all of his senses glitch out.  For a moment, he tasted colors, and smelled sounds, and saw sensations.  Then it was gone, and he was on the floor, and a handful of faceless mechs were staring at him, and this was all too much.  With a burst of energy that had come from who-knew-where, Vortex bolted, running blindly until he hit a wall, and then groped his way along said wall until he found a door.

The cool night air flowing through his vents was enough to drag him back to his senses.  He flickered his optics a few times, and let the world slowly settle in.

He was outside, in a garden, it seemed.  There were significantly fewer mechs out and about, and the lovely crystal hedges did a wonderful job of confining all of those strangers to their own areas.  Primus, he really was far-gone, wasn’t he?  He should have just waited with Jetlag; that would have been the smart thing.  Primus-forsaken tailpipe-fragging rusty-aft sedatives!  This was so much more intense than dual-clocking.  He felt like death itself had come to claim him.

Weakly, he stumbled forward, resting his head on a cool, crystal shrub, and let the solitude wash over him.  For one amazing moment, he felt somewhat close to normal. 

That was when he heard it.

“After a thorough evaluation, Senator Aileron and I have come to the conclusion that the stagnation of Altihexian science has been caused by complacency.  She has asked me to reach out to other polities, to extend the hand of friendship, and to build a sort of symbiotic relationship.  We provide you with science and education, and you provide us with bright new minds and unique perspectives.”

Blast Off!  Vortex would have recognized that voice anywhere.  And with that familiar, comforting presence so nearby, he could focus on nothing else.  Clearly, the mech was engaged in a conversation, but Vortex didn’t care.  All that mattered was reaching Blast Off, being close to Blast Off.  Blast Off was safe; he’d make everything all better!

Another burst of strength had Vortex throwing himself over the hedge, his arms open wide, ready to wrap that wonderful mech in the tightest embrace he could muster.  “Blasters!” he cried out as gravity took hold, as he crashed – hard – into his target, wrapping those arms around his neck, until poor Blast Off was bending backwards to prevent strangulation.

In retrospect, he was probably quite lucky that Blast Off hadn’t accidentally murdered him in his surprise.

Instead, Vortex found his arms pried apart, found Blast Off moving out of his grip and whirling around with a flared EM field, reflecting alarm and anger.  Aww, Blast Off sure was cute when he was upset.  His indigo optics were burning brightly, his plating was flared, and his biolights were all aglow.  Vortex wanted to save this blessed image in his mind forever.

“Vortex,” he growled, “what are you doing?”

Vortex took the opportunity to lunge again, this time wrapping his arms around Blast Off’s waist.  “I’m hugging you, obviously.”

Blast Off sputtered.  “Y-you – did you just throw yourself over that hedge?  Primus, if you broke any of those crystals, Onslaught will be in so much trouble!”

A clumsy finger groped its way to Blast Off’s lips; behind his visor, Blast Off went cross-eyed to focus on it.  “Shhhhh!” Vortex chuckled.  “No yelling.  I got a headache.  Gotta be . . . chill.”  He swayed unsteadily; to compensate, his other arm pulled him in even closer.

Blast Off shook off the finger, but didn’t push Vortex away.  “You’re in no position to make demands, Vortex.  In polite society, there’s such a thing as manners, and yours are more than a little lacking.  I was  _ trying _ to have a conversation here, until you so rudely interrupted.”

“ _ Please _ ,” slurred Vortex, waving off the insult.  “I’ve got manners comin’ out my aft.  I’ll show you manners!”  Without loosening his grip, he peered around Blast Off, ready to apologize to his buddy.  “Sorry, pal, for interrupting your – oh scrap.”

Oh scrap indeed.  Striking Green optics were staring at him from a bewildered silver faceplate.  Vortex had never met this mech face-to-face before, but he’d seen his too-pretty face, his pristine plating, shining in that particular shade of indigo, the wings that hung like a cape from his shoulders.

Vortex had found himself staring down Senator fragging Ratbat.

He was so screwed.


	24. Do You Remember When . . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blast Off and Vortex share a moment alone.

Leave it to Vortex to ruin everything.  What was he even doing here?  He seemed to be drugged out of his mind, which, to be honest, wasn’t all that unusual for Vortex.  He also seemed to be terrified of the realization that he’d interrupted a conversation between Blast Off and Senator Ratbat, of all mechs, at least if the way he’d started swearing under his breath was any indication.  Manners coming out of his aft indeed.

“Frag, frag, frag, frag a rust-bitten turbofox right up the tailpipe!  Frag my spark, and feed me to a scraplet.  Of all the cog-sucking senators on this planet, it had to be the biggest cog-sucker of them all.”

“Vortex,” said Senator Ratbat with a strained smile.  Primus, even the senator knew this mech?!  

“Senator Rustbutt,” Vortex replied, the easiness of his own smile clear, even behind his mask.  “Who’d have thought you’d be at a party held in your honor?”

“Vortex!” Blast Off hissed, trying and failing to squirm out of that iron grip.  The last thing he wanted was to be anywhere near the legendary wrath of Senator Ratbat.  And he’d been doing so well with his negotiations, too.

“Oh no, let the little insect speak his mind.  I’m dying for one more reason to send him in for a reformatting.  Honestly, I could have sworn that I already did just that?”

Blast Off was missing something here.  He was obviously the outsider in this situation, and was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the prospect.  The right thing to do would have been to excuse himself, but the senator had just made a not-so-subtly-veiled threat against Vortex.  Blast Off had no illusions how the encounter would end, should he leave the two to their own devices.

Vortex laughed.  “Oh, oh yeah.  You did.  But feel free to try again!  I’m dying to see it, really.  Big, civilized hotshot like you, ruining everyone’s evening with an arrest.  I wonder who the populace will sympathize with  – the unpopular senator, known for his cruelty?  Or some downtrodden warframe, accused of  – what exactly?  Being a war criminal?”

What was he on about?  Blast Off reached downwards, groping for Vortex’s rotor hub, and giving the sensitive mechanism a tight squeeze.  At last, Vortex’s grip around him fell lax, and he was able to force the troublemaker a few feet away.  “I’m sorry, a war criminal?”  He narrowed his optics at the still-smiling mech in his grasp.  Was Vortex even taking this seriously?  He was being threatened with erasure!  What was wrong with him?!

“Oh don’t worry.  That’s all been sorted out!” he chirped, giving his rotors a quick spin to dislodge Blast Off’s hand.  To Blast Off’s horror, the insanity continued, with Vortex marching right up to the senator, despite the warning glares of his bodyguards.

“Oh?” replied Ratbat, surely more on-edge than his calm expression implied.  “Do tell.”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Some generals and what-have-you talked it all out, and it turns out, I’m not responsible for my actions, because I don’t count as a real mech!  Isn’t that ironic?  The way the high-and-mighty attitudes of you and yours resulted in my  – well, not freedom, exactly, but y’know, it ruined your plan anyway.”

And then he did the unthinkable.  He threw his arms around the diminutive senator, and pulled him into a tight embrace.  Ratbat’s guards moved in to intercept, but Ratbat himself raised a hand to wave them off, before pushing Vortex away as well.  At least Vortex had enough sense to allow himself to be removed.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the senator, through gritted teeth.

“Of course you don’t!  You’re a senator, not a dirty military mech!  Duh!”  Vortex gave another laugh and danced away, closer to the relative safety of Blast Off’s shadow.  “But yeah, I won’t bore you with all of the details, but long story short, I am now the proud new property of one Onslaught of Helex!  So if you take me, you’ll be stealing from Onslaught, and people like Onslaught way more than they like  _ you _ .  So maybe you should probably hold off on the threats for tonight.”

Ratbat’s fists were clenched, his shoulders stiff, pauldrons flared so high that his helm appeared to have sunken into his chest.  His indigo paintjob heated to a warm, bright violet, and his cape of wings expanded, each blade twitching in its individual socket.  Somehow, some lowly untouchable and apparent war criminal (he was going to have to ask about that later) had backed the haughty senator into a corner, and they both knew it.  Ratbat, however, was too good of breeding to make a scene.  He forced his frame into calmness, pasted a fake grin across his face, looked Vortex dead in the optic, and said, “Very well.  I shall take my leave of you for tonight.  But do be aware, this is far from over.” 

With that said, he turned on his heel, his wings flowing out behind him, and marched off, not even bothering to bid Blast Off goodnight.  His feathers were ruffled.  And while it had worked out surprisingly nicely for Vortex, Blast Off’s current scheme to unite Altihex and Kaon had been ruined.  He slumped his shoulders in a heavy sigh.  Why did Vortex have to ruin everything he touched?

Speaking of, the moment the senator was gone, Vortex was back on Blast Off like some sort of miniscule energon vampire.  His arms had wrapped themselves tightly around Blast Off’s waist, and this time, no amount of squeezing his rotor hub could get him to let go.  Eventually, Blast Off was left with no choice but to deal with this little madmech.  He gave in, ignoring the Rotary latching onto his side in favor of walking towards a nearby gazebo, where the pair could get a little privacy.  Likewise, he ignored Vortex as he collapsed onto an ornate bench within; if Vortex didn’t want to let up, then Vortex could just find himself a new job as the world’s most uncomfortable chair.

Fortunately, the obnoxious little aft had enough sense to get out of the way.  Unfortunately, the moment Blast Off was seated, said aft was back, sprawling himself luxuriously over Blast Off’s lap which, admittedly, looked very nice.  Not so nice were the rotors digging into Blast Off’s thigh.  From experience, he knew that if he dislodged Vortex, the brat would only find some way to annoy Blast Off further; what choice did he have but to resign himself to his new fate as furniture?  Heaving another heavy sigh, he buried his face in a hand, propping the elbow on Vortex’s helm as his version of petty revenge.  Vortex gave a soft shudder and offlined his optics, but otherwise, didn’t seem to mind.

For several long moments, the pair sat in the cool, dark night air, silent and uncomfortable, with Blast Off waiting for Vortex to sleep, so that he could sneak away, and Vortex doing . . . whatever he thought was most annoying, most like.  Naturally, Blast Off was the first one to cave.

“So . . .” he began, not entirely sure how he wanted to finish that sentence.  There was so much to ask  – Vortex was a war criminal?  Vortex belonged to Onslaught?  Vortex had somehow personally slighted Senator Ratbat?  But not one of those questions seemed appropriate in this quiet moment.

“So . . . ?” Vortex repeated after a pause, his optics still unlit.

“So,” Blast Off tried again, “you’re very clingy tonight.”  Really?   _ That _ was what he’d gone with?!  He would have slapped a palm to his face, were his palm not already there.

“I like contact,” Vortex explained.  “And I like you.  So yeah, I guess I am pretty clingy.”  He laughed, though the sound was weak this time.  The encounter with the senator must have taken a lot out of him.

“You like  _ me _ ?” Blast Off scoffed.  “Why?  We’ve barely met.”  He thought back to their first encounter, where Vortex had shot him for stumbling across a gruesome murder.  But then there was their second, where Vortex had tipped him off to the hits on his head, had asked to join Onslaught’s scheme, had called him a ‘good mech.’  He’d sounded so much like he knew Blast Off at that time.

_ You seemed like a nice guy.  Saved my life that one time. _

That line had bothered Blast Off.  He hadn’t saved Vortex’s life in their one prior encounter.  He’d only had enough time to stumble upon the grisly scene before the little madmech shot him full-on in the chest.  And then there was that time in the warehouse, the night when Vortex had knocked out Brawl and paralyzed Blast Off, all so he could have the chance to speak to Onslaught on his terms.  He’d said something strange then as well.

_ I know you hate big mechs that throw their weight around. _

He did; Vortex wasn’t wrong about that.  But Vortex shouldn’t have had any way to know such a thing, after their scant few encounters.   _ Had _ they met before?  Blast Off sure as the Pit couldn’t recall.  But evidently, Vortex did.

“Hmm, I dunno.  You’re a good mech.  You’re smart, and really fun to ruffle.  Also, you make a good pillow.”

“I doubt that,” Blast Off groaned, but this time, he didn’t give Vortex a chance to reply.  He knew what he wanted to ask now.  “Vortex, forgive my presumptiveness, but . . . at some point, did I save your life?”

Red optics flickered back on, wide in surprise, revealing one whole moment of vulnerability before irreverence kicked back in.  “Well, I mean, there was that Harvester that you were prepared to take out on my behalf.”

Blast Off frowned, his expression on full display with his mask retracted.  “You know what I mean, Vortex.”

“Do I?”

A quick shove, and Vortex fell to the ground with an undignified squawk.  “Ack!  Hey!  I just got those reattached!  Watch it!!”  He crawled to his knees, twisting to stroke at his shivering rotors in a way that looked incredibly uncomfortable.  Blast Off didn’t care.

“You talk as though you know me, you say things that don’t make a lick of sense.  I want the truth, Vortex.  If you really like me the way you say you do, then you’ll be honest with me here.  How do you know me?”

Slowly, Vortex turned away from his rotors, leaning his arms over Blast Off’s lap, a gesture that would have been coy, had he not retracted his own mask to reveal a nervous frown.  

“Well,” he said, “I don’t think it really matters all that much.  I figured it wasn’t a big deal to you, so there was no point in bringing it up.”

“Well,” Blast Off retorted, “clearly it’s a big deal to  _ you _ , so go ahead and enlighten me.”

“ _ Well _ ,” Vortex shot back, but he had no immediate follow-up.  Instead, he crawled up onto the bench, leaning his back on Blast Off’s arm, facing away.  He was avoiding eye contact.  Interesting.  

“Okay,” he said at last  –  mumbled, more like.  “So yeah, you  _ did _ save my life.  I didn’t make that up.  I mean, it wasn’t a Harvester you saved me from, but it  _ was _ a pretty fraggin’ big hunk of mech, in an alley in Lower Kaon.”

Blast Off frowned.  “I’m from Altihex.  And I only moved to Kaon after the Quintesson Wars.  And I don’t recall meeting you in that time; I’m pretty sure I would have remembered.”

Vortex snorted, bitterly.  “You really know how to flatter a mech, Blasters.  But this was a long time ago.”

“I just told you, I wasn’t _ in _ Kaon a long time ago.  Perhaps you have me mistaken for  – ”

“I  _ was _ you!” Vortex snapped, jolting upright and clenching his fists against the bench, though his back remained turned away.  “Frag if I know what you were doing in Lower Kaon three vorns ago, but you were there!  You saved me from a six-armed organ harvester, gave me a few shanix and a gun to defend myself, and sent me on my way.  Told me your name!  I was going by something else at the time, don’t remember what, but I could never forget  _ you _ .  You changed my life that day; I could never forget  _ you _ !”

It was Blast Off’s turn to stiffen.   _ Oh frag it all. _

He did remember going to Kaon, three vorns prior, for exactly one night.  He and the handful of other Altihexian draftees had just finished boot-camp in Helex, and on the night of their graduation, the lot of them had decided to celebrate with a night out in Kaon, complete with a visit to the legendary Mechanica’s Old Distillery, the southern counterpart to Maccadam’s Old Oil House.  But one thing had led to another, and somehow, he and his buddies had wound up in the Underground, hoping to get a taste of the ‘Delta Life’ prior to being shipped off to fight alongside the lower castes.  Blast Off was far too refined for such things, however, so he quickly found himself ditched on the streets of Lower Kaon, alone, and terrified.

That was, until he heard the screams.

His training sent him jolting to action, and without a moment’s hesitation, he was racing in to save the day.  The scene he’d stumbled upon was that of a giant of a mech straddling a comparatively tiny and struggling Rotary, the most likely source of the screams.  The little thing was undoubtedly a pleasurebot, while the big guy, based on the scalpel held in one of his six hands, pressed to the chest of the little one, prying open the plating that guarded his spark chamber, was some kind of Insecticon organ harvester.  

Even Blast Off, with his Shuttle frame, was small in comparison with that hulking brute, but he had no room for fear.  He took out his gun and shot the creature full-on in the head.  The blast wasn’t powerful enough to kill it, but with half of its helm gone, the thing wasn’t prepared to stick around.  It skittered off into the night, leaving Blast Off alone with a terrified, damaged pleasurebot to console.  And that pleasurebot had apparently been Vortex.

It wasn’t too surprising that Blast Off didn’t remember.  Vortex had been wearing a different paintjob at the time, and he’d given no name.  Besides, it wasn’t exactly a night that Blast Off liked to think about.  He preferred to keep thoughts of the depravity of his first encounter with Lower Kaon far from his mind.  Pit, his inherent distaste for the place was no doubt linked with that first impression.  How interesting that two mechs could have such opposite responses to the same event.

“Oh,” said Blast Off at last, not sure what else to say to that.  

Vortex turned around, slowly, his lips pursed into a tight frown, and his optics flaring, for a moment only, before flickering out.   “‘Oh’?  What does ‘oh’ mean?” he asked, rising up on his knees, arms resting on Blast Off’s shoulder this time, face-to-face, eye-to-eye.

“‘Oh’ means that I do indeed recall the event in question.  I just . . . and forgive my stupidity here; it seems obvious in hindsight, but I didn’t realize that mech was  _ you _ .”

Vortex glared, his optics dark, his lips pursed so tightly that tiny lines of pink energon trickled down his chin, as sharp teeth broke metal.  But then, slowly, the frown twisted upward, and the optics grew mirthful.  Soon, Vortex was laughing, collapsing back into Blast Off’s lap, too amused to be angry.  “Well, I guess I should be flattered that I no longer look like a victim!  Oh Blasters, you’re too kind.”

Now Blast Off was  _ really _ confused, but he didn’t say as much.  Truth be told, he didn’t know  _ what _ to say.  Clearly, Vortex had spent a long time idolizing him, but Blast Off had responded by forgetting.  How much must that have hurt?

Inwardly, he kicked himself.  There was no reason to spare pity on Vortex, even if he  _ was _ pitiable.  He was also a gleeful murderer, sadist, and apparently a war criminal to boot.  And yet, lying there, shaking in laughter, Blast Off couldn’t help but feel a warmth in his spark.  Vortex was alive because of  _ him _ , had become a fighter, in some ways, one of the most powerful mechs in the Underground, because of  _ him _ .  It was strangely flattering, in a way.

After several minutes filled with nothing but the sounds of Vortex’s unhinged cackling, the mech finally got control over himself.  He crawled up, throwing a leg over Blast Off’s lap (totally not arousing!) and dangled his arms over Blast Off’s shoulders.  It all seemed rather romantic, and honestly, Blast Off should have pushed him off again, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do so.  Strange as it was, he kind of liked having an attractive Rotary in his lap, one that was clearly into him, no less.  There was something about the rotors . . .

“Well anyway,” Vortex snickered, pulling Blast Off’s attention, “does that answer your question?  I like you ‘cause you saved my life and kinda shaped who I turned out to be, and also you’re good, and smart, and kind of hot?”

Blast Off found it difficult to do anything but stare dumbly, but he needed to say  _ something _ .  How could he stay silent when those adorable red optics were looking at him with such longing.

“It’s okay though,” Vortex sighed, slumping forward to rest his head on Blast Off’s chest.

Now Blast Off was  _ really  _ confused.  “I’m sorry, what?”

“I know you’re not into me.  You like Onslaught, right?”

Oh, that was the last straw.

“Why does everyone think that?” Blast Off snapped, causing Vortex to sit upright again.  First Aphelion and now Vortex.  He was really quite sick of hearing it, least of all because, to be honest, he didn’t yet know  _ how _ he felt about Onslaught.

“It’s okay,” Vortex laughed.  “I’m not jealous or anything.  Primus knows I sleep with like, almost everyone I meet.”

Blast Off rolled his optics.  “Yes, I am quite aware of that.  But that’s beside the point.  Yes, I like Onslaught.  He’s changed my life much in the same way that I changed yours.  But what does it matter?  Onslaught is untouchable.  He is a god, standing above all of the rest of us, regardless of caste.  He can’t be bothered with carnal desires or pointless relationships.  People exist only in so far as they’re useful to him, and a romantic relationship with him is useless.  Any feelings I may or may not have for Onslaught are irrelevant because I know it’s never going to happen.  And even  _ I _ don’t know how I feel, because I haven’t allowed myself to think about it, because deep down, I’ve always known.  So stop bringing Onslaught into this.”

“Blast Off . . .”  Vortex’s optics were wide, surprisingly innocent even.  It took noticing that at some point in his ranting he’d wrapped his own hands around Vortex’s waist, pulled him in close, blunt fingers digging into delicate seems, before he fully understood the reasoning behind Vortex’s reaction.  Immediately, he loosened up.

“Apologies.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The look of surprise was quick to vanish, replaced by one more irreverent snicker.  “Oh please, you know I like it.”

“What?”

Vortex didn’t bother replying to the non-question.  Instead, he rose up on his knees, planting a kiss on Blast Off’s unsuspecting lips.  It was surprising only insofar as how very chaste it was.  He didn’t shove a glossa in, didn’t devour Blast Off’s mouth with hungry abandon, he didn’t even hold it for all that long.  When he pulled away, he was wearing a wide grin, one that nearly disguised how very tired his optics were.

“Well then, if you’re giving up on Onslaught, I know someone who just might be willing to take his place.”

Blast Off shook his head.  “Please.  Nobody could take Onslaught’s place.”  Despite this, he wrapped his arms around Vortex’s shoulders and pulled him in close to his chest.  It was nice to feel loved for a change, and for once, he found that he didn’t mind that it was Vortex that the attention came from.  Vortex had shared with him a deep and intimate secret, one that he’d almost certainly never shared with anyone else, given just how very much he feared emotional honesty.  Would Onslaught have ever given him so much?

Who knew?  And what did it matter anyway?

Any future that Blast Off and Vortex shared was uncertain; after all, the latter had just done a spectacular job of making a major enemy of Senator Ratbat.  But for now, it didn’t matter.  For now, the two of them could bask in this shared moment of bliss.

By the time he pulled back from the hug, Vortex had fallen into recharge.  It wasn’t surprising given the state he was in, but Blast Off found himself disappointed nonetheless that the moment was over.  The feeling passed quickly enough.  A sleeping Vortex was a Vortex that was not making a complete aft of himself, and happened to be adorable to boot.  Blast Off was content to stay here awhile longer, holding his new not-quite-lover in his arms.

Whatever happened now, he couldn’t deny that he was glad he came to Onslaught’s gala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Either one chapter left, or five, depending on how wordy I get. Either way, the end is in sight.


	25. And All Was Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all ends here. Will Onslaught accomplish what he set out to do?

Brawl was beginning to think he’d been played again.  How else could he explain the fact that he was all alone in an oversized hallway that someone had spent way too much money on, surrounded by the ultimate in vapid mecha, all of whom were making quite sure to give him a wide berth as they bantered and milled about?  And more importantly, how else could he explain the fact that Vortex was  _ not _ here?

_ Onslaught’s gonna kill me! _

What a fool he’d been, to think that he could handle Vortex.  There was no ‘handling’ Vortex.  The mech did what he wanted; everyone around him never had any choice but to fall in line.  Brawl would either pay for his indiscretion, or hunt down the little madmech, lock him up in stasis cuffs, and deposit him on the floor at Onslaught’s feet.  Frankly, the latter sounded like the better plan.

The question then became ‘where  _ was  _ Vortex.’  His drab paintjob and downtrodden countenance should have stuck out like a misaligned strut in this flashy crowd, and his rotors ought to have made him an easy find when Jets and Speedsters ruled the floor.  A cursory glance, however, was not enough to bring poor Brawl any closer to finding his prey.  That was bad news.  If he wasn’t in here, at the gala, then the list of places he  _ could _ be was nearly infinite.  

No.  In the shape he was in, Vortex couldn’t have gotten far.  Brawl just had to go back out to the front gates and ask around.  Someone was bound to have seen him.  With that new goal in mind, Brawl set out across the atrium, back the way he’d come.

That was where he ran into Senator Ratbat.

Or Senator Ratbat ran into  _ him _ , more like.  Brawl hadn’t noticed the diminutive senator at first; he fit in far too well amongst the rest of the aristocracy.  It wasn’t until two bulky guards, each wearing the indigo sigil of the senator, stepped into his path that he realized the little mech was trying to get his attention.

“Senator!”  It was a nervous greeting.  Brawl had betrayed this mech to rescue Vortex, and now Vortex was gone, and Senator Ratbat definitely knew of Brawl’s indiscretions, and he was going to be fired again, and there was no way Onslaught would hire him now either.  He’d be back in the Underground by the end of the night, provided he wasn’t arrested first.  “H-how is your evening?”

He hadn’t been expecting the senator to provide him an answer, so he was more than a little surprised when he received one.  “It is not well, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”

“And would you like to take a guess as to why that is?” he continued, smiling sweetly all the while.

“Uh . . .”

“Do you suppose it might have anything to do with a certain fugitive Rotary who happened to accost me and mine while we were walking the gardens?”

“He’s in the gardens?!  Oh thank Primus!  I was afraid he’d run away!”  He knew it was a mistake the moment he’d said it.  Senator Ratbat may have still been wearing his smile, but his acid green optics were blazing with fury.  “I mean . . . uh . . .”  Brawl had no idea how to go about explaining himself, least of all in a way that wouldn’t get him arrested.  Fortunately, Senator Ratbat seemed more than happy to pick up his slack.

“It’s strange; I could have sworn that I sent you, Demolishor, and Horizon to deliver that very same Rotary to Helex.  And I also happened to see Demolishor and Horizon arrive in this very hall less than an hour ago, to inform me that the mission had been completed.  So tell me, Brawl, why it is that Vortex is here, now, instead of rotting away in some prison cell in Helex?”  It was amazing just how restrained the mech could be when put in the effort.  He’d sounded perfectly civil throughout the majority of his accusation, and by the end, only the slightest edge of annoyance had trickled into his voice.  Poor Brawl was left dumbfounded.

“Uh . . .”

And then the other shoe dropped.  “Go on then, you eight-bit, flat-top scrap for brains!  Tell me.  I’m dying to hear how you managed to mess this one up.  You were right there!  What, did you feel sorry for the little mass-murderer?  Decided to abduct him from the Helexian military itself?  I swear to Primus, if you caused  _ another _ international incident for me, then I’ll –”

“It wasn’t like that!” Brawl interrupted.

“Then what  _ was _ it like?” 

“I – I dunno.  General Cryotek was there, and you don’t say ‘no’ to a general.  And like, Lieutenant Colonel Sonic Boom got arrested in Vortex’s place, and Onslaught did . . . um,  _ something _ ?  I dunno what exactly it was, but anyway, now Vortex belongs to  _ him _ .”

The senator’s demeanor calmed – flared plating retracted, and a well-manicured claw tapped at a shapely chin.  “ _ Onslaught _ did?” he repeated, subdued.

“Yeah.”

Again, it had been a mistake to say as much.  Burning green optics shot back to him, pure murder kept in check only by fine breeding.  “And how exactly did Onslaught know to do this, Brawl?”

_ Lie.  Lie.  Lie. _

“Uh, I told him?  That, uh, that Vortex was being transferred to Helex tonight?”

_ Dammit, Brawl! _

“ _ You _ told him?  You, who I took in after Onslaught cast you off like an old junker ready for the scrapyard, relayed that very same Onslaught information that could possibly give him an advantage over me?  Is that what you’re saying, Brawl?  Think very hard before you answer.”

Brawl did not do that.  “I just – Vortex is my friend.  I didn’t want him getting reformatted.”

“So you released classified information to the enemy.”  There was no hiding the anger in the senator’s voice now.  Had it been Brawl in his position, everyone in the room would have turned their heads at his screaming, but Ratbat was a more subdued mech.  Even so, a few passersby were beginning to stare, a fact which Ratbat was quick to notice.

Green optics offlined themselves, and tiny fists clenched with all their might.  Senator Ratbat held the position for a full five seconds, and when he released it, his anger had vanished.  “You know, Brawl?  I think that you’re just not the right fit for my employ.”

Brawl frowned.  “What does that mean?”

With one innocent comment, Senator Ratbat’s forced calm began to slip.  “It means, you dolt,” he said through gritted teeth, “that you’re fired!”

All things considered, it wasn’t so terrible an outcome.  Brawl had been expecting to get axed anyway.  He just had to get out of here before the senator found a reason to throw him in jail as well.  “Well that’s fine,” he said in his booming voice, causing a few more heads to turn his way.  “I didn’t like dragging bots off the street for you to torture anyway!”

Ratbat’s optics grew wide.  It seemed by now that half of the room was staring at the pair.  In fact, the crowd was so quiet, that for the first time, Brawl could hear Onslaught addressing the room.

“And that was Night Blight.  Tonight’s gala is being held to benefit her Cybercrosis Foundation.  All proceeds from the silent auction will go to the research of Cybercrosis.  Here is your last chance to do some good before the night ends.  Now, there shall be a short break before our next guest speaker, so get that last-minute bidding done now, and of course, donations are always welcome.  . . .”

The moment dragged on forever, and slowly, the onlookers began to avert their optics, returning their attentions to Onslaught’s speech, or to their previous mingling.  Finally out of the public eye, Senator Ratbat allowed his shock to simmer to a mild rage, complete with flickering EM field, flared plating, narrowed optics, and a heated face.  Brawl figured now was probably a good time to excuse himself.

“I’ll uh, just be going then.  Later.”  With a quick wave goodbye, he trotted away from the fuming senator as fast as his bulky legs could carry him.  The gardens.  Vortex was in the gardens.  He was pretty sure the door in the back of the hall led out there.  He could get away from Ratbat before he got himself arrested, and collect his charge to deliver to Onslaught all at once.

Serendipity was still smiling on him, it seemed.

~~~

Serendipity was smiling on him, yes.  What were the odds that he’d not only escape a full reformatting a  _ second _ time, but also that he would run into Blast Off, and  _ also also, _ that Blast Off would be totally open to pursuing a relationship with him?  Admittedly, Vortex wasn’t quite sure how that was going to work just yet.  Blast Off was proper and prudish, and honestly a bit boring, and Vortex – well, interface was his way of saying ‘hello,’ for starters.  Was he expected to be exclusive now?  Did he even have a choice in the matter now that Onslaught owned him? 

It was best not to think about it.  For the first time in a very long time, he had no control over his life.  But who cared?  For now, he had Blast Off, and he was warm and happy, dozing close to someone good and pure and warm.  Nothing else mattered so long as he was lost in this contented eternity.

Then the stench reached him.  He recognized it all too well – the stench of the Underground.  It lingered on a mech, no matter how many layers of fragrant oils one tried to bury it in.  And by the smell of things, the new arrival had done just that – new  _ arrivals _ , more like.  Vortex groaned, and buried his face into Blast Off’s chest as best as he could, hoping to drown himself in that ozone-tinted aroma.  He had no such luck.

“Well, well.  If it isn’t Mr. Can’t-Keep-His-Legs-Shut?”  Ugh, Blackjack.  Why did Captain Grabby-Hands have to be here?  And no doubt, his partner was Catalyst.  “Careful buddy, that’s how you get rust.”

“Good to know,” replied Blast Off, his tone disinterested.

“Blackjack, that’s rude.”  Yep, there was Catalyst, Mr. High-and-Mighty himself.  “There are some things you just don’t talk about in an establishment of this nature.”

“I’m no Alpha,” Blackjack shot back.  “I’ll talk how I want!”

Primus, Vortex didn’t want to deal with these idiots.  At least Blast Off seemed to be having the same thought.

“May I ask why you have come out here?  If you are simply passing through, I ask that you please keep it down.”

“We  _ were  _ passing through,” Blackjack said, earning him a groan from Catalyst.  “These rich folks sure are a boring mess when they’re not giving me their money.  Had to take a break before I purged my tanks; that’s when we ran into  _ this _ sorry show.  I’ll have you know that Vortex is  _ mine _ .”  Ugh, of course this would happen to him  _ now.   _ Stupid, entitled Micromaster.

“Technically, since he is a registered member of the Assassin’s Guild, he is mine,” Catalyst corrected, cooly.

“Fine, fine.  He can be yours.  The point is, he ain’t no Alpha trophy, got it?”  There were hands on Vortex’s rotor hub now, and they didn’t belong to Blast Off.  That was unacceptable!  Vortex didn’t have the energy for much right now, but he could at least offer a warning growl, and give his rotors a partial spin to dislodge the offending appendage.

“Ey!  Watch it!”  The good news: Blackjack had let go; the bad news: now he was angry.  “You ungrateful little slag bag!  I’ll have your head for that!”

Before he had a chance to lay his tiny hands on Vortex again, however, Blast Off leapt to his feet, shifting Vortex’s weight onto his right shoulder.  This was nice, if not a little demeaning.

“I’d say that was a clear indicator that the Copter doesn’t want you to touch him right now, and I think we all know how very . . . unpredictable he can be.  Let’s not start a scene.”

“Start a scene?  Do you hear this aft?  Comes into our Underground, seduces our peeps with his – his money and prestige, and now has the gall to tell us not to be mad about it?  Yeah fraggin’ right!  Guess what, Mr. Blast Off!  As of right now, your gambling license is revoked!”

“Jack, you’re makin’ a scene,” Catalyst warned.

“Oh please!  Like I care what  _ you _ think.  Don’t think I don’t know what you did to Modulator.  What, you gonna come for me next?”

“You gonna give me a reason to?” came the cool response.

Frag it all – why did these two aft riders have to argue here, of all places?  Vortex groaned, and slid from Blast Off’s grasp, landing unsteadily on his feet.  “Is this  _ really _ necessary?  I’ve had a scrap day; I’d like to spend my last few hours of freedom cuddled up to my Shuttle here, but  _ no _ , y’all gotta bicker like a pair of drunken gladiators.”  He’d meant for the words to have some bite, but mostly, they just sounded tired.

“Ah, so the traitor speaks!”  Blackjack was still up in arms.  Wonderful.

“Yeah, whatever.  Hey Cat, you ever find Onslaught?”  The best way to deal with Blackjack was to ignore him.  The little guy clenched his fists and ineptly stomped his feet at the brush off, but at least he’d stopped shouting.

“Not yet, no.  I haven’t seen him all night – one-on-one anyway.  He’s been mingling with the elite.”

“Fragger dragged us all out here, but doesn’t even got the decency to say ‘hello.’  ‘S not right’s what it is.”

“ _ Onslaught _ invited you?”  Blast Off actually sounded affronted by that. 

“Well, technically Vortex did,” Blackjack admitted.  “But we know it was on Onslaught’s orders, so yeah.  And what’s so strange about it, eh?  We’re powerful mechs, even if we  _ are _ from the Underground.”

“I suppose so,” Blast Off sighed.  “I admit, I was wondering when I saw Swindle in here –”

“That rat’s  _ here _ ?!”  So much for subdued Blackjack.  He was practically foaming at the mouth at the mere mention of Swindle’s name.  Come to think of it, he  _ had _ put a hit on that pint-sized fragger’s head, hadn’t he?  And indeed, with a fire in his cyan optics, he turned on Catalyst.  “I thought you were gonna take care of him?”

Not one to be intimidated, least of all by a mech half his height, Catalyst folded his arms over his chest and glared down his sharp nose.  “Last I heard, he’d been abducted by Senator Ratbat.  Like the Pit was I sending mechs to bust into the senator’s quarters for a measly five thousand shanix.”

“Tex here woulda done it for  _ two _ thousand!  Wouldn’t ya?”  Now those cyan optics were on  _ him _ .  He really didn’t want to answer that question, least of all because it was true.  Pit, on Onslaught’s behalf, he’d gotten in there free of charge!  Next time, he was getting something out of putting his life on the line like that.  If he had a choice, anyway.

“Frag no,” he groaned.  “Like the Pit am I putting myself at that miserable aft’s mercy again, least of all after the scrap I just said to him.”  Oh, but what fun scrap it had been.  He really needed to mark those memory files with a ‘look at when sad’ tag.  “But what’s it matter anyway?  Swindle’s moved to the surface; he ain’t a threat to y’all no more.”

“Wait, no – go back,” said Blackjack, frowning.  “’After the scrap you  _ just _ said to him?’  You spoke to him?”

“Yes?” Vortex replied cautiously.  Blackjack was angry again; why was he so angry?

“And did you mention the sanctions?”

Oh that.  “He – ah – he wasn’t in the right mood.”

Blackjack clenched his fists.  “You promised me, Pet!”  At the nickname, Blast Off gave Vortex a curious glance, mouthing the word back to him with an incredulous stare.  Vortex ignored it; he had a raging Micromaster to deal with.  “You promised me that I could talk to the senator – that we’d fix my sanctions problem; or did you forget?”

“Relax Jack.  The night’s still young.  You’ll get your conversation.”   _ Somehow . . . _

“And what about me?” Catalyst stepped in, quite literally, as he placed himself between Blackjack and Vortex.  “You promised me a one-on-one conversation with Onslaught.  Care to tell me where exactly he is?”

“Er . . .”

“He is right here.” 

Thank Primus below; Onslaught to the rescue!

He stood at the entrance to their gazebo, tall and polished, wearing every last medal he’d earned in his service, presumably to better fit in with his guests.  His lips were pressed into a thin frown, and orange optics were narrowed into an irritated glare.

“Ons!” Vortex cried out, bounding past Catalyst and Blackjack to throw himself at his new master – Primus, that sounded terrible.  He’d meant to perform a flying tackle-hug, a gesture well-suited to annoy his opponent, but he couldn’t quite muster the energy to get the air he needed.  Instead, he stumbled into the mech’s thick, flat chest, hitting his helm hard enough to fill his vision with pixels.

“What was that?” Onslaught sniffed, not bothering to pry Vortex from his frame.

“A backhanded thank you for saving me at the cost of my freedom?” he ventured, feeling more than a little discombobulated.  “But then it backfired due to the downright abysmal state of my frame.”

“Is that so?”  Onslaught could not have sounded less interested if he’d tried.  With minimal effort, he shook himself free of Vortex’s loose grip, and stepped forward.  “Blackjack, Catalyst,” he greeted, “it is good to finally meet you.”

“And you,” said Catalyst, bowing his head, a remarkably classy move for him.  “It is nice to finally be able to put a face to the mech who has been meddling in Underground affairs all year now.” 

Despite the rude comment, Onslaught remained unbothered.  “Yes, I am glad you were able to make it tonight.  I wished to discuss with you just that.  I admit, I  _ had _ been hoping to speak with all three of the most powerful mechs in Lower Kaon, but it seems that Swindle has retired early tonight.  A pity.”

“Pity I don’t get to murder his aft, you mean,” sneered Blackjack.  “You’re lucky he didn’t come.”

“Yes, yes,” said Onslaught, brushing off the threat.  “I understand that he surpassed you in wealth recently – a big deal for a mech in your position.  But it likewise seemed to me that the stability of the Underground depends upon a precarious balance between three mechs.  When the power falls too far in one direction, the whole system comes apart.  It’s all so unnecessarily tedious.”

“Just as I suspected,” Catalyst huffed.  “The outsider seeks to usurp us.”

Onslaught smiled right back.  “What I seek is an alliance.”

Vortex perked up at that.  An alliance?  Between Onslaught and the di-fecta?  It was an interesting prospect.  With Catalyst and Blackjack on his side, Onslaught would have full access to all of the perks of the Underground, and with Onslaught on  _ their _ side, Catalyst and Blackjack would have a trustworthy link to the upper echelons of society and the money that came with.  And, if he managed to get the senator under heel, then the wayward pair would find themselves at the right hand of the single most powerful mech in all of Kaon.  It was a gamble, but an interesting one.

“It’s a good offer, Cat – I’d take it if I were you,” Vortex grinned. 

“Perhaps,” Catalyst nodded.  “Or perhaps I’ll remain on my path to supreme dominion over the Underground.”

“What?!”  Unsurprisingly, Blackjack was fuming again.  “I’m sorry,  _ who _ has dominion now?  There are  _ two _ of us in the Trifecta!  Not one.  That’s why it’s called the  _ Tri- _ fecta!  ‘Cause there’s more than one.”

“Says the mech who is so out of touch that  _ Swindle _ was able to depose him.  Face it, Blackjack.  You’re old news.”

Before Blackjack had a chance to retort, Onslaught stepped in.  “You are the most powerful mech in the Underground; that is true.”  He nodded at Catalyst, ignoring the poisonous glare Blackjack shot him.  “But I’m not talking about the Underground.  I am talking about Kaon as a whole, and maybe beyond.  I am opening a branch of VRIO in Helex, and I imagine there are more on the way.  Think on that, if you will.  Both of you.”

“Ratbat will never let it happen,” Catalyst snorted.  “He’s very good at keeping mechs where they belong.”

It was Vortex’s turn to laugh.  Weak though it was, he managed to draw the attention of all those present.  Or perhaps that had been him collapsing to the ground.  Blast Off was nice enough to kneel down at his side, inspecting him for any damage he may have sustained in the fall.  What a sweetheart.

“What’s so funny?” Blackjack hissed, while Catalyst rolled his optics with a groan of, “Graceful.”

Vortex met the replies with further laughter.  “Come on!” he cackled.  “Look around you!  All this?” he gestured broadly, toppling back onto his rotor hub under the momentum.  It hurt, but he was content to balance there for the time being.  “It was put on by one very determined Delta.  These celebrities?  The politicians?   _ You _ ?  Who do you think they’re here to see?”

“I’m here to see Ratbat,” Blackjack muttered, only to be ignored.

“That’s right!  They’re all here to see  _ this _ guy!”  Using an affronted Blast Off as a crutch, Vortex crawled to his feet.  Once there, however, he kept hold of his prize – clinging tightly to a long arm.  Like the Pit was he letting this one get away. 

“Blast Off?” Blackjack frowned, cocking his head.  “What’s so great about . . . oh.  Oh, you meant Onslaught.”

“That’s right,  _ Pet _ !”  Vortex revelled at Blackjack’s flinch.   _ See how it feels you colossal aftwad!   _ “He’s already bested the senator once tonight, and Primus, you shoulda been there to see it!  Just imagine that smug, alterated face looking all inept!  Priceless moment, that.  I mean, he’s even got  _ me _ vouching for him, and you know me.  I don’t vouch for no one.”

Catalyst opened his mouth to contest the claim, but Vortex didn’t give him the chance.

“So hear him out, eh?  This guy proves that anyone can do anything if they want it bad enough.”  A chance glance at Onslaught revealed a pair of orange optics fixing him with an unreadable look.   _ Didn’t expect your new slave to be so gung-ho, did you?  Well take that, Mr. High-and-Mighty!  No one can predict Vortex! _

Catalyst, on the other hand, was a little more predictable.  It seemed that Vortex’s glowing recommendation had worked.  Though Catalyst wore a sour look on his face, he said, “Very well.  You tell me exactly what it is you have planned, and then I  _ might _ decide to provide you with my assistance.”

“Me too!” said Blackjack, not to be outdone.

Whatever his expression had been before, Onslaught was smiling now.  “Wonderful!  But not out here.  I wouldn’t want our . . .  _ mutual friend _ to drop in on us.  This way, please.  We haven’t much time before I’m back on stage.”

Catalyst’s frown deepened, but his hesitation was short-lived.  With a grumble and a shrug, he followed Onslaught’s lead, out of the gazebo and down the crystalline steps.  Naturally, Blackjack was in quick pursuit.  When Blast Off and Vortex made to join them, however, they were met with a ‘halt’ gesture from Onslaught.

“Not you two.”

Vortex cocked his head.  “Not us two?”

Onslaught didn’t bother responding to Vortex’s question.  Instead, he kept an even gaze on Blast Off.  “Keep an eye on the senator; only interfere if he tries to leave, but I doubt he will.  Otherwise, wait for my signal.  You’ll know when you see it.”

Blast Off grimaced, clearly less confident in his ability to spot a cue than Onslaught was, but he nodded nonetheless.  “Understood.”

“Wonderful.  I’m counting on you; your role is key.”  He paused, sparing a glance downwards, towards Vortex, who couldn’t stave off his most shit-eating grin.  Or was ‘innocent’ a better word?  “And keep him out of trouble.”

“Yes sir.”

With that said, Onslaught continued his retreat, taking the remaining members of the Trifecta with him, and leaving Blast Off and Vortex to their own devices once again, just the way Vortex wanted.

~~~

_ You’ll know when you see it. _

Onslaught had a lot of faith in a mech that was more out of the loop than anyone else involved.  But Blast Off wasn’t one to argue with orders.  If Onslaught had faith that Blast Off would know what to do when the time came, then Blast Off would have to have faith in Onslaught’s judgment.  If only it was so easy.

He cast a glance down at Vortex, still smiling that predatory smile of his, and leaning heavily on Blast Off’s arm, like a love-struck newbuild on his first date.  The night was warm, the atmosphere romantic, the two of them – alone, and Vortex, at last, awake and more or less alert.  Blast Off would have loved nothing more than to stay out here and take advantage of the moment; frankly, he would have loved to do  _ anything _ so long as it wasn’t putting himself back in the vicinity of that horrible little rodent disguised as a senator.  If it had been anyone else to ask this of him, he would have declined.  But this was Onslaught, and though Blast Off wouldn’t allow himself to love the mech, that didn’t put an end to his boundless admiration.

“Where are you going?”  Vortex hadn’t released his death-grip on Blast Off’s arm, which left him scurrying to keep up with Blast Off’s sudden strides.

“To find Senator Ratbat.”

_ That _ got Vortex to let go, though his momentum left him stumbling forward, barely catching himself before he hit the ground.  “You can’t be serious,” he groaned.  When Blast Off failed to slow down, however, he resumed his frantic pace, unwilling to fall behind.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised.  You heard what Onslaught said.”

“Well yeah, but I thought you didn’t like Onslaught?”

Blast Off couldn’t stave off the sharp glare at that.  “I never said such a thing.  Don’t twist my words around, Vortex.  It’s unbecoming.”  He picked up the pace; the doors back into the hallway were in sight, as were a handful of partygoers, looking for some fresh air.  He had to be more careful about what he said from here on in.  It was also probably best to keep Vortex distracted.  No doubt he’d make trouble if left to his own devices.  “Besides, you seemed pretty enthusiastic back there.”

“I’m only enthusiastic in so far as getting you alone.”  He flung himself back onto Blast Off’s arm, his poor vents blasting hot air, burning against Blast Off’s plating.

“We’ll have plenty of time for that later, when the slightest bit of physical exertion doesn’t put your cooling fans in overdrive.”

Vortex’s pout was adorable, his griping even more so.  “They aren’t in overdrive.  Besides, you walk fast.”

A quick tug of the arm brought Vortex stumbling forward, and from there, it was just a spin and a stoop to plant a chaste kiss on the mech’s surprised lips, while he groped for the door handle with his free hand.  The flurry of events did a fair job of shutting the boisterous little mech up, at least until the door flung open beneath his groping hand, and Brawl came stumbling full-force into the pair.  It was a miracle that none of them hit the ground.

“Primus, watch where you’re goin’, ya big oaf!” Vortex hissed, snapping his mask back into place.  “Almost bit my glossa off!”

Brawl was swayed by neither the insults nor the collision.  “I’m supposed to take you to Onslaught – why didn’t you come back?  I thought you’d ditched me.”

“Sorry, who said I belong to  _ you _ ?  ‘Sides, Ons already found me, and he dumped me off on Blasters here, so we’re all good.  You can leave now.  Shoo!”  He waved Brawl off, but again, the Tank didn’t budge.  Instead, his optics drifted to Blast Off, as though seeing him for the first time.

“You!”

Well, that wasn’t the greeting he’d been hoping for.  “Me,” he replied.

“Blast Off,” Vortex added.  “Great!  Now we’ve all properly identified Blasters.  Bravo us.  Maybe we could move outta the doorway now?  Y’know, so peeps can get in and out?”  Indeed, a small crowd had gathered behind their lot, dark glares clashing with their painted faces.  An embarrassed heat flushed across Blast Off’s faceplates.

“Right.  Brawl, we were just about to head in, if you don’t mind?”  He gave Brawl a few seconds to move, but when the mech failed to budge, Blast Off figured it was best to keep moving forward.  Hopefully, Brawl would catch on.

Vortex was more direct.  “Move!”

Apparently, that was all it took.  Brawl began walking backwards, his attention fixed on Vortex and Blast Off all the while.  May Primus protect anyone unfortunate enough to be behind him.  “Everything’s your fault, y’know?” Brawl grumbled.

“Yeah, I know,” Vortex sighed, releasing Blast Off’s arm, and marching forward at his own pace.  “It’s a good thing I’m adorable.”

“N-no, not you!  Blast Off.”

“I?”

“You!  There, we did it again!” Vortex chimed, this time latching onto one of Brawl’s massive arms, and swinging forward.  Much to Blast Off’s surprise, the action was enough to get the steadfast titan to turn around.  Blast Off hurried to catch up.

“What are you blaming me for, exactly?”

Brawl grumbled, shrugging out of Vortex’s grip.  “You fired me.  I wouldn’ta started workin’ for Senator Ratbat if you hadn’t fired me.”

“Wait, wha –”

“And if I hadn’ta started workin’ for Senator Ratbat, then I wouldn’ta done all those bad things and hurt like, Swindle and Vortex and them.  And Onslaught’s probably super mad at me, and I – I think the senator is too.  What if he arrests me?  I don’t wanna lose my hands!”

Vortex shot a sour glare at Brawl.  Brawl working for the senator?  Swindle and Vortex getting hurt?  Losing hands as punishment?  What in the world had Blast Off missed while he’d been away?

Arguing would be futile.  Brawl was angry, and hurting – that much was clear, and though there were many mechs whom the blame could fall on, the finger pointing would never end if they traveled that road.  It was best to take responsibility for his own actions.  That was the noble thing to do.  “I apologize.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d say – what, huh?  You – you  _ apologize _ ?”

“Yes, of course.  I am sorry for my role in your suffering.”

“Aww, you don’t gotta do that,” Vortex groaned.  “Let the oaf take the blame.  No one made him work for the senator.”

“It doesn’t matter who’s to blame,” Blast Off insisted, perhaps more harshly than he’d intended.  Vortex may have been adorable, but he was also a major pain in the aft, a fact which Blast Off was only now beginning to truly remember.  Was this really going to work between them?  “The fact of the matter is, I played a part in this chain of events, and I am sorry for it.  I did not mean to hurt you, Brawl, and I will do what it takes to make it up to you.”

“Really?”  Brawl stood a little bit taller at that.  “Like what?”

What indeed?  What would make Brawl happy?  “Are you  _ still _ working for the senator?”

“What?  No, he fired me.  Like, just now.”

“Well then, I shall put word in with Onslaught – request that he hire you as a bodyguard.  It’s pointless to deny your connection at this point.” 

Brawl looked unsure.  It seemed that he was not yet satisfied.  “If nothing comes of that,” he continued, before Brawl could voice his concerns, “then I will hire you myself.”

“You?  But you live in Altihex,” Brawl protested, though his face shone with hope and awe.

“For now, yes.  But depending on what happens here tonight, I may consider returning to Kaon.  We shall see.”  He glanced at Vortex.  The troublesome Rotary properly belonged to Onslaught; if Blast Off wanted to see him at all, he was going to have to come back to Kaon sooner or later.  Then again, a long-distance relationship had a certain appeal to it.  He’d reap the benefits of having a lovely Rotary lover without having to put up with the  _ many _ drawbacks.

“Well, okay then.  That sounds nice.”  Brawl was satisfied.  Good.  Vortex, however, was not.

“What about me, then?  What do I get for all the trouble y’all’ve put  _ me _ through?”

Blast Off snorted.  “Something tells me, you deserve anything you’ve gotten.”  Was it mean-spirited?  Perhaps, but it was true nonetheless.  Swindle hadn’t been wrong when he’d described Vortex as self-destructive.  However, whether or not Vortex agreed was up for debate.  He fell silent, and hid his expression behind his mask.

When he spoke, however, he sounded normal enough.  “Is that Ons getting up on the stage there?”

Indeed it was, which was bad news for Blast Off.  ‘ _ Keep an eye on the senator,’ _ Onslaught had said, but between dealing with Vortex and Brawl, he hadn’t yet had the opportunity to fulfill the request.

“Hey, Braw-lee-oh, where is old Ratface anyway?” said Vortex, as though reading Blast Off’s mind.  It was a remarkably thoughtful thing to do, least of all given how much he’d protested earlier.

Brawl hunched over, casting a furtive glance around, as though he could somehow hide his massive Tank frame amongst a crowd of dainty Alphas.  “Um, I last saw him back – er – that way,” he jerked his neck towards his left shoulder.  “But he weren’t too happy with me, y’know?”

“I can guarantee you, he’s less happy with  _ me _ ,” Vortex grinned, peering around Brawl’s bulky body.  “Ah, yup!  There he is – hiding between those hulking guards of his!  Wait, is that Demolishor?  Frag, I hate that guy.  You think they’d notice if I popped out his spinal column?”

“Yes, I do,” said Blast Off, reaching out to grab hold of a rotor, and dragging the walking safety-hazard back behind Brawl’s shelter.  “You two stay here.  I’m going to see if I can get closer.”

“Er, why?” asked Brawl.

“’Cause Ons told him to,” Vortex groaned back.  “Fine, you do your thing.  I don’t want anything else to do with the senator for a very long time.  Excuse me.”  He slipped away, disappearing into the crowd, and Brawl, suddenly nervous, cast a quick glance between the two before following.

“Sorry, I – I gotta make sure he doesn’t run away.”

“Go right ahead,” Blast Off sighed, rolling his optics.  It was fine; those two would only hinder him at this stage.  With the boisterous duo out of sight, out of mind, Blast Off crept through the hallway, closer to the senator – close enough that he could see every twitch of that too-handsome face.  And all the while, Onslaught was giving his next introductory speech.

“ . . . I am truly humbled by the generosity of mechs such as yourselves.  Already, we have raised more than two hundred fifty thousand shanix for Night Blight’s Cybercrosis Foundation.  Everyone here, please give yourselves a hand.  You deserve it.”  A smattering of polite applause rose up from the audience.

“Now, in a few short moment, we will be hearing from our guest of honor, Senator Ratbat,” he paused, allowing applause to fill the room once again.  The senator himself, flashed a white smile, and puffed out his chest, drinking in the attention with a genuine glee.  “However,” Onslaught continued, “if you’ll allow me a chance to speak, I would like to relay my own personal experiences with Cybercrosis, and why it was this particular charity that I chose for tonight’s gala.”  The crowd fell silent, waiting with curiosity to hear what it was that Onslaught had to say.

“As Night Blight mentioned earlier, Cybercrosis affects one in one hundred Cybertronians, regardless of caste, frame type, construction date, spark amperage, or even coding – it seems to strike at random, with no regard for who you are, or the sort of life you lead.  Through the ages, it has claimed thousands of good mechs, from the mightiest senator, to the lowliest empty.  However, we’ve never been a race content to give in without a fight.  

“Cybertron’s top medics, mechs like Night Blight here, have dedicated vorns of research to finding the cure for this horrid ailment, and in some regards, they have succeeded.  With medical advancements, like Corrostop and Spark-Transfusions, mechs with Cybercrosis are able to lead longer and fulfilling lives, despite their ailment.  Unfortunately, those treatments do not come cheap.  Many of us, up on the surface, have little to fear from the virus, but we are alone in this regard.  

“As a field commander during the Quintesson Wars, I had a reputation for not losing a single mech.  On the battlefield, this is true.  However, I did lose mechs – many good mechs, who fought bravely for our planet, to a disease that could have been countered, had our lives any merit at all.  And as a cadet, I saw even more of my brothers fall to this plague.  

“And now, returning to Cybertron, I see it all over again.  I’ve worked with many mechs from the Underground in my line of business, and I’ve found time and again, that there are more amongst the poorest of us, who suffer from this disease and cannot afford treatment, and worst of all, we, up here, are blind to it.”  

This was a dangerous line of conversation.  Advocating for Underground mechs to the nobility couldn’t be done without implicating the nobility in their suffering.  Blame was never a good way to get the majority on one’s side.  Already, Blast Off could hear the grumblings of offended aristocrats rise up from the farthest corners of the room.  What was Onslaught doing?  At this rate, he was going to undo all the good he’d accomplished in a matter of minutes.

“It is no one’s fault, of course.  That’s just the way society rose up.  It is only through actively listening to those who have been, quite physically, separated from us, can we accomplish what must be done.  And it’s not just Cybercrosis.  We’ve seen controversy, even within the last year, that could have been avoided merely by opening up conversation.  I have spoken with Senator Ratbat, and he agrees with me.”

The senator stiffened, fists clenched and fire in his optics.  That was a bold-faced lie right there, but it was a clever move on Onslaught’s part.  He was a far more popular mech than Ratbat – should this measure prove too unpalatable for the audience, then the blame would easily fall on Ratbat.  And if the senator did anything to stop him at this point, he would only further implicate himself in wrongdoing.

_ Not bad, Onslaught. _

But Onslaught wasn’t done.  “It is thus, that I wish to announce my newest business venture.  I call it BRIDGES – Building Relationships, Instituting Diversity, and Generating Enterprise and Synergy.  It is a new sort of industry – a combination of mechs from below and above, working together to best address the needs of both, to forge a more harmonious society.  I have appointed top mechs from the Underground – Blackjack of Rodion, and Catalyst of Iacon, to represent the interests of those below, as well as experienced diplomats from the surface, Highline and Twist of Kaon, and myself, of course, to come together, encourage industry and trade between Kaon’s two halves.

“It doesn’t end with Kaon, either.  We all recall the Underground Riots earlier this year, where a Vosian ambassador was struck down in the chaos.  It is my belief that further communication with our neighbors all across Cybertron will prevent further conflicts of this nature in the future.  With the help of the Vosian Embassy, I already have plans for a sister branch in Vos.  But it is my end-goal to establish branches all across Cybertron.  Our current system of embassies is not enough; let us end this separation and promote a unified Cybertron.”

Oh Primus, Onslaught was really in it now.  The system he proposed was stepping on the toes of every senator on Cybertron, and there was no way he didn’t know it.  What did he think he was doing, broadcasting such plans to this particular audience?  He was going to get himself killed!

“I am, of course, not advocating that borders be removed entirely, but to create economic bridges, between the physical barriers that separate the castes, and between the polities across Cybertron.  There are massive untapped markets in all of those areas, that we are ignoring out of tradition.  But the more mechs we can get involved in the economy, the better it will become, don’t you agree?

“Naturally, I don’t expect any commitments tonight; it is a major issue that requires much deliberation.  However, if any of you, particular those amongst our international community, would like to further discuss this issue with me and mine, I have a tablet on the back wall where you may sign up.”

There was a pause in his pontification.  He was waiting for something, though what it was wasn’t immediately clear.  The mechs in the audience were no longer trying to be quiet.  All around the room, the guests were all abuzz, intrigued, critical, anxious.  Not one of them, however, made to move for the tablet.

_ You’ll know when you see it. _

Was this it?  Onslaught had requested international mechs to sign up for discussions, but of course, no one was going to volunteer to be first, to stick their neck out on the line like that.  But if one mech got the ball rolling, then just maybe . . .

Blast Off abandoned Senator Ratbat – he wasn’t going anywhere – and forced his way back through the crowd, to the wall-mounted tablet that Onslaught must have been talking about.  It sat in plain sight; everyone could see as he dislodged the pen from its holder, and wrote his own name, position, polity, and contact information on the form.  

And just like that, the dam broke.  Some of it may well have been mob mentality, but with the name of the Altihexian ambassador at the top of the list, other mechs were more than willing to add to it.  How many of them would truly commit was impossible to say, but given the look on Ratbat’s face right now, it didn’t matter.

Onslaught had won.  He may have been edging in on government territory, but with the ever-increasing number of international names on that list, this was too diplomatically-beneficial an operation to snuff out.  Ratbat would let him get away with it, because he  _ did _ desperately need to look better in the eyes of the world, and his own people for that matter, and Onslaught had given him credit.  If Onslaught played his cards right, public perception of Senator Ratbat would improve, thus indebting the senator to Onslaught.  There was no way he’d fight it at this point.

Frag, Onslaught was good at this.  But the night wasn’t over just yet.  Senator Ratbat wasn’t going anywhere, but Vortex and Brawl may yet prove a hindrance.  It was high time he got back to them, before they had a chance to ruin all of Onslaught’s hard work.

~~~

It was done.  The last year had been spent building up to this night, and at last, it had passed.  There was nothing left to do not but wait for the fallout.  Hopefully Senator Ratbat would respond as planned.  Hopefully they  _ all _ would.

He gave a few parting words, announced a brief pause before the senator’s speech, and then left the stage.  It was time to spend the evening the way  _ he _ wanted to.  It wasn’t hard to find Blast Off – he was with Brawl, after all, and Brawl’s turret stood like a beacon over the crowd.  With calm, dignified steps, Onslaught made his way to their corner of the room, near the bar, away from the crowds that had gathered around the sign-up tablet.  That would be its own headache in the making, but he could deal with that tomorrow.  For now, he had a mech to thank.

“Blast Off,” he greeted, his grateful smile on full display.  “You did well.  I knew I could count on you.  Thank you for your service.”

Blast Off matched the expression, wearing a sparkle in his indigo optics.  “You too.  Color me impressed.”

Then Vortex had to step in and ruin it.  He threw himself at Blast Off, clinging tightly to an arm like a hungry scraplet.  Vortex too, would be another problem to deal with.  Not tonight, but very soon.  Onslaught may have cowed him for now, but he was under no illusions that the chaotic Copter would be content to shut up and obey, regardless of his new position.

“How ‘bout me, eh?  I helped.”

“By getting yourself captured, yes,” Onslaught replied.  “That was very clever of you.”

An indignant growl sounded from the small mech.  “Yeah, well, at least I got Brawl back on your side, eh?”

“Indeed, you did.”  Onslaught offered a nod of acknowledgement at the hulking mech who stood, hunched and surprisingly timid.  He may have been a walking disaster, but Onslaught couldn’t deny that his fast-thinking (how strange a concept!) had saved the night.  “And thank  _ you _ for your service, Brawl.  I truly am impressed by your contributions.”

“Ah, don’t mention it.”

“Oh no, I think I  _ will _ .  You truly are the unlikely hero here.  Saving Vortex, saving  _ me _ .  You have gone above and beyond my expectations.”

Somehow, Brawl managed to hunch even further.  “Ah, t-thank you, sir.  It’s an honor.”

Onslaught had meant to offer him a new job, and perhaps to throw a late bone to Vortex, if only to make him more docile later on, but he didn’t get the chance.  A flash of indigo caught his eye; the senator was marching over, flanked on either side by his bodyguards.  Mercifully, nobody else seemed to be paying him attention.

“Ah, Senator,” Onslaught greeted, flashing a sweet smile.  No doubt, Ratbat was displeased with his earlier blatant lie, to say nothing of his general insolence, but hopefully Onslaught had him properly subdued, at least for now.  “Thank you very much.  I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, I know,” Ratbat snarled, only barely holding his anger in check.  “I want words with you.  Your little ‘crew’ can come too, but we need to speak in private, before my speech.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Onslaught chirped.  “Come, Blast Off, Vortex, Brawl, let us meet in the green room.  It will be empty right now.”

The green room was in the back of the ballroom, meant as a holding area for the band to prepare, but with the band currently onstage, it was, as predicted, unoccupied.  Swiftly and unhindered, all seven mechs shuffled into the spacious area.  Vortex immediately launched himself at the broad, adjustable couch, lying on his stomach, and raising up an armrest to lay his hands and chin on.  Blast Off was too well-bred to sit while a senator stood, but he moved to stand at the back of the couch anyway, as though to say ‘I’m watching over this one; don’t mess with him.’  Brawl, of course, was not well-bred at all.  He was too big for the upholstered chair, so he plopped himself down on the floor, heavy legs sprawled out in front of him.  Onslaught, of course, stood opposite Ratbat, who had planted himself in front of a closet door, still flanked by his guards.

“So, you and I came up with an idea to work on diplomacy and international trade, did we?”

“You don’t recall?” Onslaught replied sweetly.

Surprisingly, Ratbat seemed eager to play along.  “No, I’m afraid I do not.  Please enlighten me.  When exactly did we discuss this?”  He was smiling, though his tightly-held EM field was no doubt filled with fire and rage.

Onslaught folded his arms over his chest, frowning.  “Hmm, I could have sworn we had the conversation.  Perhaps I misremembered.”

“Perhaps you did,” Ratbat nodded, his smile twisting downwards.

“Then perhaps I should go back out there, and tell all of those celebrities and diplomats that it was a false alarm.  I know they were all looking forward to strengthening their ties with Kaon – it would be an amazingly popularity-boosting move for you – but, no, I think you’re definitely right.  I never spoke to you, and it would be foolish to build an empire on a lie.”  He turned around, reaching for the keypad to the door.  “Blast Off, come with me.  We’d better go rectify this –”

“Well,” said Ratbat, flinching forward, “you needn’t go that far.”   _ Yes, good.   _ “There’s no sense in undoing what’s been done.”

Onslaught turned back.  “Oh?  But it’s not true.  We can’t let the folks out there believe a lie, can we.  Unless . . .”  He allowed the smile to creep back onto his lips, without the friendly pretense this time.  “Unless you’re willing to make it truth?”

“What do you mean by that?” the senator asked, folding his arms over his chest, closing himself off.  He was on the defensive, just where Onslaught wanted him.

“Endorse BRIDGES.  It will require nothing from you save for your name.  And in return, think of the approval you’ll get from your followers.  We all know where you stand with your subjects, and that’s to say nothing of your position in the Senate proper.  This may well be a step in the right direction for you.”

Ratbat’s expression grew pinched.  He unfolded his arms, and uncurled his fists, which trembled beneath his urge to clench them once more.  Oh yes; he’d definitely been beaten, and he knew it.  Onslaught couldn’t have felt more proud right now. 

_ Dance my puppet! _

“Hmm,” Ratbat said at last.  “You’d make a good political advisor.”  It wasn’t a job offer.  He was bitter, he was angry, he was filled with a desire for vengeance, but somewhere, deep down, he was also impressed.  Indeed, he could stand to learn a few things from this lowly Delta.  “Not that a Delta has any place in politics.”  

_ So you think, Ratbat.   _ Onslaught didn’t mind.  He had his sights set higher than a mere seat in a senator’s cabinet now.

“But very well.  My hands are tied, as I’m sure you know.  So I shall endorse this ‘BRIDGES’ thing, and I shall stop fighting your presence on the surface.  You’ve proven yourself crafty enough to make it up here, at the very least.”  All at once, his wings flared, and he stood up on his toes, making himself as large and threatening as possible.  “But don’t think this is over.  If you slip up, Onslaught, I will be there to devour you.  You remember that.”

It was a laughable sight, but the threat was very real.  Still, Onslaught was nothing, if not careful.  “I will, Senator.  I will.”

Perhaps Onslaught had made a face; it was hard to contain his expressions – he was so very used to wearing a mask, after all.  Whatever the case, Ratbat withdrew, as though embarrassed to be seen losing his cool in such a way.  He signaled to his guards, and without another word, the three mechs crossed the room, exiting back into the ballroom, and leaving Onslaught and his crew all alone.

“You sure showed him,” Brawl laughed, breaking the awed silence that had hung over the small band.  “I never thought no one could take down Senator Ratbat like that, but you did!  Of  _ course _ you did; you’re Onslaught!  You can do anything!”

“Brawl,” Onslaught cut in, before Brawl had a chance to sour his mood with ill-chosen words.

“Y-yes?”

“How would you like a job?”

Brawl slumped; behind his mask, he was no doubt frowning.  “Uh, you mean like a gladiator again?”

At first, Onslaught didn’t reply.  Instead, he caught Blast Off’s optic; Blast Off knew Brawl better than anyone, and he knew Onslaught too, for that matter.  He no doubt knew what Onslaught was thinking, and he’d know if Brawl would find it agreeable.  A slight nod was all the answer he needed.

“As my personal bodyguard.  My job has just gotten a lot more dangerous, and there’s no reason to deny the relationship between us any longer, or between myself and the Underground.  So we may as well embrace it.  Does that sound agreeable to you, Brawl?”

It shouldn’t have been possible for a mech so big to move so fast, but somehow, Brawl was on his feet in seconds, giving a triumphant, if not  _ loud _ , cheer.  “Yes!  Oh Primus, yes!  That’s all I’ve wanted from the beginning!”

“I’m happy to oblige you,” Onslaught replied.  “But please take care.  I would hate for you to damage the room.”  He nodded towards Brawl’s turret, which had nearly grazed the ceiling in his glee.  Immediately humbled, Brawl sat back down.

“Y-yes sir!”

If only that were the end of his troubles.

“What about me, boss?”  Vortex.  Of course.  He’d twisted himself into a position that couldn’t have been comfortable, so that his rotors continued to face the ceiling as best they could, while his helm turned about to face Onslaught.  “You went through all the trouble of getting me; whatcha gonna do now that I’m yours?”  

Onslaught didn’t miss the way Blast Off flinched at the word ‘yours.’   _ Really, Blast Off?  _ _ HIM _ ?  “I have plans for you, don’t worry.  We’ll be a lot more involved in the Underground now; your knowledge will be indispensable.”

“D’aww.”  At last, he sat up.  A small sigh of relief escaped Onslaught’s vents.  It was impressive just how much looking at an uncomfortable pose could affect him.  “That’s sweet.”

Onslaught shook his head.  “And of course, I do have plans to use your – ah – particular skillset.”  He wasn’t about to say ‘assassination’ in a place like this, private or no, but the phrasing made his plans sound far more nefarious.  He hoped that Vortex, and in particular, Blast Off, got the right idea.  “But that is a conversation for the future.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Vortex snickered, his tone indecipherable.  Onslaught was not looking forward to navigating around the deathtrap that was Vortex from here on, but the benefits of having him as an ally outweighed the detriments.  It would be unpleasant, but he would tolerate it.  He had no choice.

And then there was Blast Off.  He would, no doubt, be bound for Altihex again after tonight.  It truly was a shame that they hadn’t had more time to properly spend together.  “I am truly glad you came tonight,” he said at last.  “And thank you for your actions.  I shall be in touch with you regarding BRIDGES, and how Altihex will play into it.”

“Actually,” said Blast Off, “I was thinking I’d like to stay with you, if you’ll allow it.”

What was this? 

“I mean, obviously it won’t take effect immediately.  We  _ do _ have to work things out with Altihex, after all, but I honestly do think a union between our polities will do Altihex much good.  However, as much as I love my hometown, I don’t think it’s for me.”

Onslaught perked up.  “Really now?” he said, trying not to sound incredulous.

“I’ve been on the ground for far too long.  I have little in common with my own people, certainly less than I have with the likes of  _ you _ .  So, if you’ll have me, I would love to work with you again.”

Could this night get any better?  Grinning cheek to cheek, Onslaught stepped forward, resting a hand on Blast Off’s shoulder, admiring the flicker of anticipation that rang in his EM field at the contact.  “Blast Off, nothing would make me happier.”

The war was far from over, but the battle had been won.  The rest of the night flew by in a cherry flurry, from Ratbat’s hastily-rewritten speech, indicating his full support of Onslaught’s new business venture, to the dancing, the dining, and the ultimate dispersal.  Everything ran smooth as could be, and when he bid farewell to his guests, and his friends, it was will a full spark and a strong sense of optimism.

There was still a long way to go; he wasn’t so naive to deny it.  He knew that Brawl was prone to incompetence, that Vortex was unpredictable and chaotic, and that Blast Off was, perhaps, not so unquestioningly loyal as he’d once thought, but that was fine.  Onslaught wasn’t worried anymore.  He’d gotten his foot in the door, established himself in the eyes of the public, and in the process, had earned himself a little positive publicity.  Indeed, he would be fighting for a long time yet, but for now?  

It was time for him to rest.

~~~

Two years later . . . 

~~~

“Mechs are lined up around the block to apply with BRIDGES, which is set to open three days from now.  It seems that the brainchild of Senator Ratbat and Onslaught of Helex is shaping up to be another major success.  Since the announcement of its inception, crime rates in Kaon have fallen by fifteen percent, unemployment has dropped down to twelve point two percent, the sanctions on Lower Kaon have been lifted, and industry is booming.  

“In other news, the Mt. Meridian Treaty between Kaon and Vos has been signed, effectively putting an end to the brewing conflict between the two polities, after the Underground Riots of two years ago . . .”

Swindle flicked off the holocaster, his lips twisting downwards into an irate frown.  Onslaught sure was doing well for himself.  Who’d have thought that a lowly Delta would find himself in a prime position to change the world, even if it  _ was _ from behind the scenes.  Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder where he would be today if he hadn’t run out on Onslaught the night of the gala.  How much wealth, how much power had he missed out on by following his own path?

“Excuse me.  How much are you charging for this cannon?”

This was no time to wonder ‘what if.’  Swindle had his own business to run, and he wasn’t doing too bad for himself.  He had his shop in District Two – the one with street access – and business was thriving, even without Onslaught.  It seemed that even surface mechs liked the thought of a weapon for safety, and Alphas and Betas could even legally carry most of his wares.   _ Most _ of them.

“What, the fusion cannon?” Swindle asked, eyeing the heavy black weapon mounted on the wall at his back.  “Ah, that’s for display only I’m afraid.  Not for sale, sir.  But perhaps you’d be interested in some photon blasters, if you’re looking for self defense.”  He began rifling through the case at his feet, looking for the weapons in question, but the customer slapped a heavy, silver hand on the counter to interrupt him.

“It’s not self-defense I’m after, and I know full-well that you’ll sell weapons that are not quite  _ street-legal _ .”

“Shhh!” Swindle hissed, glancing around the shop to make sure no one had heard the accusation.  Fortunately, the surveillance feed noted that most of his clientele were in the third-floor casino, enjoying Aphelion’s drinks and games, or else in the second-floor accessory room, looking to spruce up their frames with trendy mods.  The basement weapon shop was mostly empty today, as Swindle well-knew.  He often came down here when he needed a break.  Social butterfly he may have been, but even he got tired.

“You can’t say things like that,” he said, more calmly, once certain that no one had been lurking in the shadows to take him away.  “Besides, a mech like you?  I may be willing to sell to a senator or a general, but to an Epsilon?  Sorry buddy, you wanna make a deal, you need the dough.”  The mech was huge, yes – with a modified Industrial frame – probably a Drill or something, though the lack of obvious Kibble implied he’d become a gladiator at some point.  Given how dirty and dinged up he was, he probably wasn’t a particularly successful one.

Then again . . .

A cable shot from the mech’s wrist, causing Swindle to brace himself for the inevitable hacking attempt.  But it never came.  Instead, the mech jacked the cable into Swindle’s register, and deposited thirty thousand shanix.

_ What the frag?!  _  Where had a mech like this acquired that kind of money?

“I stand corrected.  Let me go fetch that for you.”  He turned away, standing on a crate to reach the cannon.  Aphelion had put it on the top shelf, because  _ it looked cool up there _ , or whatever.  Swindle would have thought it inconvenient, had he ever expected to sell such a thing.  It seemed now, that he probably should have complained sooner.  Still, he managed to get it down without embarrassing himself, and he handed the weapon over to the customer.

“Alrighty, one fusion cannon – never-been used, modded for rapid fire and extra ammunition.  You’re a lucky bot, Mr . . .”

“Megatron,” the mech replied.

_ Wait a minute _ .  “Oh!  You’re Megatronus!   _ Obviously _ !  I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.  Have – ah – have you gotten bigger?”

“I have not,” he replied, shaking his head.  “And it is Megatron now.  I find it easier to say.”

“Ah yes.  Megatron.  Of course.”  Swindle never  _ had _ seen the celebrity up close before.  If he had, he’d have realized that yes indeed, mechs  _ did _ come this big.  But he couldn’t afford to be intimidated.  “Well, anyway, you do know this is illegal, so please, keep it hidden in your subspace, and do take care when crossing any borders.  And if you  _ do _ get caught?  You didn’t get it from me.  Got it?”

“Yes, of course.  Thank you very much.”  With his new weapon in-hand, Megatron should have been content to leave the shop, but he hesitated, as though he was still interested in chatting.  “Excuse me, but were you watching the news just now?”

What kind of question was that?  “Ah, yes.  It was mostly just talk of BRIDGES and stuff.  Did you know folks are lining up around the street to get in?  And it’s not even open yet!  That Onslaught sure knows how to market himself.”

“Indeed,”  Megatron nodded.  “The mech is an inspiration.”

“I’ll say,” Swindle agreed.  “Who’d have thought that a Delta could make it so far?  Makes me think that  _ I _ got a chance of success.  Well – I mean, I’m already successful, but I could always stand to be better, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, I think I do.”  There seemed to be some kind of significance to Megatron’s words, but Swindle couldn’t quite imagine what it was he was missing; and frankly, he didn’t want to.  If Megatron was about to go do something illegal, he didn’t want to be involved.

Fortunately, it seemed that Megatron was ready to go.  He thanked Swindle one more time before subspacing his weapon and leaving the shop, and Swindle, alone in his basement, surrounded by millions of shanix worth of weaponry, was left comfortable and happy as could be.

_ Onslaught, eh? _

No doubt, if he kept on his current path, the two would meet again in the future.  And who knew, ‘Onslaught and Swindle: Partners in Business?’  It didn’t sound like such a bad prospect.  But it wouldn’t be happening any time soon – maybe in a few vorns, when Swindle was powerful enough to have real bargaining sway, and the ability to match wits with a powerhouse like Onslaught.  Until then, he would keep going his own way.

All was well, and it was going to stay that way for a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Thanks for sticking with me, and thanks especially to those few of you who left comments. Your words mean so much to me!


End file.
